Of Myths and Legends
by writteninhaste
Summary: Sequel to De Oppresso Liber. X Middle School is plagued by its very own Bonnie and Clyde. But what happens when the two sent to catch them, are the ones committing the crimes? And what happens when X's new Crime Lord tries to bring them to their knees?IxF
1. Brahmanda

**Fillmore!**

**Today's Episode: Of Myths and Legends**

**Act 1: ****Brahmanda**

_"Fairy tales do not tell children that dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children that dragons can be killed."_

_G.K. Chesterton_

* * *

What is a myth? Is a story told to little children to send them to sleep at night? Or is it a tale told by firelight, designed to frighten and amuse, to inspire and placate? Or is it something more? Is a myth merely a story, or is it the embodiment of an ingrained belief: the corporal form of something we are born knowing? Over the centuries we have transformed the ancient myths and folk tales and made them into the fabric of our lives. Consciously and unconsciously we weave the narratives of myth and folk tale into our daily existence. They live in our hearts, in our minds and in our eyes; as much a part of us as breathing, and just as necessary for our survival.

What power do myths possess?

* * *

Fillmore swore softly under his breath as he rushed around his room, hastily shoving books and papers into his messenger bag. Scanning the room, he searched for anything he might have forgotten. Grabbing a shirt from where he had tossed it carelessly over a chair, Fillmore hurriedly pulled it over his head as he shoved his feet into a pair of sneakers. Taking one final glance in the mirror to make sure he hadn't done something foolish like put the shirt on inside-out, Fillmore raced out his room, rushing past his mother with a hurried goodbye, leaving the woman blinking in surprise.

Checking his watch, Fillmore swore again. He was late. Ingrid was going to kill him.

* * *

Joyous laughter rang out through the hallways of X Middle School as Ingrid Third tore past rows and rows of lockers. Behind her, in the distance, she could here the steady footfalls of the Safety Patrol. She had forgotten what it was like; the adrenaline, the rush you got when the belts were chasing you.

All those times before, every time she was undercover and she ran – that was fun, but this was a glorious, natural high. She thought she'd kicked this habit, left a life of delinquency behind her, but as she turned sharply left and launched herself over the heads of a gaggle of sixth graders trading Happy Kitty Cards, she realised that she'd never left it behind – she'd simply put it on the back-burner for a while.

As she raced past the windows of the science labs, Ingrid caught a glimpse of her reflection. Blonde hair, longer than her own, and wavy, flew along behind her. Brown eyes, tinged with hazel were lined with slightly paler lashes and delicate, blonde eyebrows. Her mouth was fuller, lower lip pushed forward to create a semi-permanent pout. No one on the Safety Patrol would recognise her, Ingrid the Crook oozed sex appeal in a way no one would ever associate with Ingrid the Safety Patroller.

Rounding another corner, Ingrid collided solidly with a hard chest. Two arms wrapped around her to keep her upright, holding her until she regained her balance. Her eyes widened in panic as the lines of an orange belt filled her vision, and then relaxed just as rapidly when she realised just who it was who was holding her.

Looking up into the face of Cornelius Fillmore, she smiled. "Hey,"

"Hey yourself." He said, grinning down at her. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright with exercise. It took all of Fillmore's will power not to kiss her. They didn't have time, however. Looking over his girlfriend's shoulder, Fillmore let Ingrid go. "Go," he told her, "I'll send them in the other direction. Stash what you've got and then change and meet me at HQ, I want to see what the others think they know."

Ingrid smiled, "Got it." Standing on tiptoe, she gave Fillmore a quick peck on the lips. "Late." Sidestepping quickly, Ingrid took off down the hallway, rounding the next corner just as the Anza and Tehama came charging into view.

Seeing Fillmore, the two skidded to a halt, gasping for breath as they scanned the halls.

"Whoever you're looking for," Fillmore said, beating the other two Officers to the punch, "They're not here. I've been standing in this hallway for the last five minutes and not a single person's ran past. Unless you guys were _way_ behind, your perp. didn't run this way."

Anza shook his head, whilst Tehama just shook her head in frustration, "Damn. We weren't _that _far behind. We lost her."

Fillmore cocked an eyebrow in interest. "Her?"

Tehama nodded, looking at the other boy properly for the first time since she'd arrived. "Yeah, come on. We'll explain more back at HQ."

* * *

Ingrid had just settled down behind her desk at Safety Patrol HQ, when the door opened and Fillmore, Anza and Tehama walked in. Fillmore's eyes immediately found his partner's and he smiled when he saw her sitting there, looking for all the world like she'd just arrived at school.

Shooting a quick smile her way, Fillmore turned to hang up his jacket, just as Vallejo stormed out of his Office. "Anza, Tehama, why are you coming through that door with only Fillmore for company. Weren't you supposed to be chasing a perp?"

Anza sighed, "She gave us the slip Chief, but we know who she was."

"So?" Vallejo demanded, "Who was it?"

Nodding, Anza gestured over Vallejo's shoulder to one of the smaller briefing rooms. Vallejo looked over his shoulder, realised what Anza was pointing at, and jerked back around.

"Alright." He said looking back at the Patrollers who had just walked in the door. "You three, in there now." He sighed, "Third." Ingrid looked up questioningly, "Briefing room. Now."

Ingrid nodded, hastily encrypting her files on the computer, before shutting it down and following the Junior Commissioner into the Briefing Room. As she entered, Fillmore handed her a mug of hot cocoa and motioned for her to take the spot on the wall beside him. Ingrid did so, blowing once on the hot liquid to cool it before she took a sip. Leaning back against the white plaster, the girl-genius watched as the other Officers moved towards the centre of the room and the large white board that stood there.

The board was covered with names, dates, and a list of items, but in its centre were two photographs. They were official shots, the type required by the school for identification purposes. One was of a girl with elbow-length, honey blonde hair, brown eyes and a pouting lower lip. She had creamy skin, and sat demurely infront of the camera. But for all her pose, there was something almost seductive in the way she gazed out of the photograph – eyes wide and doe-like, the innocence countered by the slight lowering of her lids and the gleam in her eye. The other picture was of a boy: dark-skinned, hair in cane-rows, with a scar ran across the right side of his face, dissecting his eyebrow and part of his cheekbone. The boy's eyes were a startling, dark green, unusual for someone with such dark skin. He held himself with arrogance and even in the posed nature of the photograph his self-confidence was evident. He sat like nothing in the world could touch him and he knew it. A slight smirk twisted the corner of his lips.

"Isis Nakuta and Kapua Tutuola. X Middle School's very own Bonnie and Clyde." Vallejo's voice was tired. "So what've we got people?"

Tehama stepped forward, motioning to the left hand photograph. "Isis was the one we chased halfway across the school this morning. She tore past us just after we got that radio through that the answer sheets for next weeks bio test had been stolen."

Vallejo sighed, "Great, so now we have answer sheets out on the streets, no one in custody, and absolutely nothing to tell Folsom when she asks _yet again_ how close we are to catching these guys."

Anza scowled, glaring at the board. Walking up to it, he spun it over, revealing a map of X Middle School – hallways, grounds, outbuildings and all – pulling a board marker from his pen, he traced the route he and Tehama had ran earlier, from where Isis ran past them until they lost her where they met Fillmore. The red line was just one in a multitude of multicoloured routes penned onto the board. There seemed to be no pattern to them. X was a big school, most criminals operated within a certain area – a comfort zone – these two were all over the place: J Block, the computer building, the greenhouses – everywhere.

"You know," Karen said, scrutinizing the board, "something about this doesn't make sense. We know, that Isis and Kapua have stolen a considerable amount of stuff, but none of its appeared on the black market. No ones been busted for benefiting from the cheat sheets they steal, no large amounts of smoits have suddenly switched hands. We're missing something here."

"Maybe they're just _that_ good." Ingrid said, "Maybe they know, not to sell too much, too soon at any one time. They've got to know that stuff like that puts the Safety Patrol on your tail, maybe they know the school well enough to know where they can go to get rid of their stuff."

"But how?" Tehama shot back, looking questioningly at her friend. "Isis only got to the school two months ago and Kapua only a week before that. How could they learn the layout of the school that fast? For that matter how did they find each other that fast? Those two were committing crimes together _the day _after Isis arrived. Crooks don't normally partner up after that short of an acquaintance."

Fillmore spoke up. "Maybe it was love at first sight?" All eyes in the room turned to look sharply at him, and Ingrid dug her elbow sharply into his ribs. Glancing sideways though, Fillmore could see his girlfriend was fighting not to smile. He grinned.

"This is no laughing matter Fillmore." Vallejo said, eyeing his two best Patrol Officers. "If those two have that much chemistry, that quickly, then we're in trouble. They'll be loyal to each other; we won't catch them if they're watching each other's backs. Not if they're this good."

A smirk twisted Fillmore's lips and he glanced quickly at Ingrid, catching her eye, before focusing on the board again. Vallejo watched the exchange with a slight frown on his face.

Dismissing them all, as the bell rang to signal the start of the day, he watched the crime-fighting duo carefully. His gut told him that something was going on, but his rational mind disagreed. Sure, Fillmore and Third were tactile – she placed her hand on his arm, he'd guide her with a hand on her back – but they always had been, they flirted, it was what they did; there was nothing to suggest that their behaviour was more pronounced than usual. It was just this Bonnie and Clyde case making him see romance where there wasn't any. Next he'd start mentally accusing Anza and Tehama of falling for each other. Shaking his head, Vallejo left to join in Officer's for the start of the day.

* * *

Making her way tiredly over to her locker, Ingrid stifled a yawn. She found physics interesting, so how on Earth did Mr. Cottings make it seem so _boring_. Spinning the dial with practiced ease, Ingrid pulled the door to her locker open, placing her morning text books safely inside before reaching for her new ones. Just as she was about to pull them out, two arms wrapped themselves securely around her waist. Jumping, Ingrid squeaked in surprise, dropping the book she had been holding back into her locker.

Behind her, she heard a masculine chuckle. "I must be the only person in the world who can sneak up you." Fillmore said, laughing as he moved around to lean against the bank of lockers. Not deigning to answer, Ingrid glared and stuck her tongue out at him. Fillmore laughed again.

"Real mature, Ingrid." Ingrid glared at him again, but the effect was ruined by the small smile that was gracing her lips. Fillmore grinned.

"See, look. I knew I could make you smile." Ingrid turned to him, and would have moved forward to let him pull her into a hug, if she hadn't spotted O'Farrell rounding the corner.

Slamming her locker shut, Ingrid quickly slung her bag over her shoulder and took one step back from Fillmore, carefully increasing the distance between them. Fillmore shot her a questioning look, reaching for her. Ingrid practically jumped backwards, ignoring her boyfriend's look of confusion as O'Farrell made his way over to them.

"Hey guys, what's happenin'?" O'Farrell asked, voice overly cheerful and enthusiastic as he tried to ingratiate himself to the pair. On hearing the voice, Fillmore nearly choked and swung around just as Danny raised a hand to ask for a high-five. The end result, was that O'Farrell's open hand, backhanded Fillmore across the jaw, sending the young African-American stumbling back a pace.

Ingrid started forward, but caught herself as Danny moved in between them. "Oh man. Fillmore I—"

"Forget it, man." Fillmore said, gingerly rubbing his jaw. "It was an accident."

"But I—"

"Danny," Ingrid interrupted, "Why don't you go see if you can find some ice?"

"Ingrid I don't—" Fillmore started to say, but stopped at Ingrid's warning look. O'Farrell was already agreeing to the idea.

"Yeah, sure, I'll go get some ice. Because I—yeah, ice." The hapless photographer nodded rapidly a few times before turning and walking swiftly down the hall.

Fillmore looked over at his partner, still gently holding his jaw. "I don't need any ice Ingrid." He said, sighing as his partner moved his hand and inspected the injury for herself.

"I know that," Ingrid said, gently running the tips of her fingers over the place where O'Farrell's hand had made contact with her boyfriend's skin, "But if I hadn't said that, O'Farrell would have stood there half the day apologising."

Fillmore winced, "Yeah. He's a good kid, he's just—" he trailed off, unable to think of a word to adequately describe Daniel O'Farrell.

"Danny. He's just Danny." Ingrid said, finally removing her hand from his face. Fillmore nodded, silently mourning the loss of the feel of her skin.

"Come on," he said, grabbing her hand. "We've got open lunch. I'll take you out."

Ingrid smiled, wrapping her fingers around his warm, brown ones. "You're on."

* * *

Lost in thought, Ingrid walked slowly down the street, letting Fillmore lead the way to whichever restaurant they were going to eat in. they were walking side by side, but they weren't touching – they were always very careful. Ingrid exhaled slowly, watching as her breath misted in the crisp January air. Though snow had yet to fall this month, frost glistened heavily on the ground, making the weather was decidedly cold. Shivering, she moved deliberately closer to Fillmore, tucking herself firmly into her boyfriend's side.

Fillmore looked down startled, his arm automatically going around Ingrid's shoulders to hold her more securely to him. "Hey" he said, concerned. "Ingrid, you okay? You're not normally one for PDA."

Ingrid scowled, burrowing even further into Fillmore's arms. "Why not?" she asked, "The rest of the Safety Patrol are monitoring the school, it's not like they can see." She winced at how bitter she sounded, noticing that Fillmore stiffened slightly at her words.

"I don't like it either you know." He said. His voice was soft, but Ingrid didn't miss the words. She nodded, leaning her head momentarily against his chest. They both knew they couldn't tell anyone about their relationship, but it didn't stop either of them wishing they could just come clean. It was one of the things that had driven them to create Kapua and Isis – X Middle School's very own Bonnie and Clyde. Everyone expected those two to have a relationship. Ironically, they could be more honest as criminals than they could as Safety Patrollers.

Looking up at Fillmore, Ingrid gave him a small smile, nodding when he gestured to a small out of the way Japanese restaurant that served great sushi. Sitting themselves as a small table in the back corner of the room, Ingrid and Fillmore relaxed, secure in the knowledge that at least for this short space of time, they didn't have to hide.

As they began eating, Fillmore started the conversation. "I found someone who might be able to give us some information as to whose trying to sabotage out territory over in M Building." He kept his voice soft; low enough that only Ingrid could hear him.

The raven-haired girl looked up in interest. Someone or a group of someones had been muscling in on Kapua and Isis's territory, trying to undermine their client bases and establish him or herself as competition. Needless to say, it wasn't something either one took kindly to.

"Who is it?" She asked, keeping her voice as low as he had.

"His name's Nicky Wilson. Small time crook, only ever worked for bigger fish. Now he's working for us." Fillmore's voice had a smug note to it, which made Ingrid smile.

"And what is this work costing us?" she asked, cautious.

Fillmore winked at her. "Protection from the Safety Patrol."

Ingrid laughed.

* * *

Checking herself quickly, one last time in the mirror, Ingrid made sure that the wig covering her hair was secure, before stepping out from behind the screen she'd been changing behind.

Quickly, her eyes found Fillmore's and she smiled. Though always attractive, there was something _darker_ about him this way. He was rougher, not such a gentleman, though still a definite ladies-man. She'd seen the way that the female component of the criminal underground followed him with their eyes. The jealousy on their faces when they realised he was with her.

Seeing her smile, Fillmore crossed over to her in three quick strides. The room they were standing in was small. More of a storage closet than anything else, but it suited their purpose – they couldn't risk getting caught changing in communal areas such as the bathrooms and so Ingrid had stolen the key for this little used storage closet out by the East doors.

Pulling Ingrid into his arms, Fillmore kissed her. He had wanted to do so ever since she had kissed him that morning during her 'escape'. Though his partner was the girl he had fallen for, her alter-ego was alluring in its own right. It was as though he was witnessing the flip side of the coin – the girl Ingrid could have been had she put her mind to it: the temptress, the femme fétale. Her fingers traced the scar on the right side of his face and he smirked, catching her fingers and gracing them with a swift kiss before letting them go.

"Come on, we got to meet Nicky."

Ingrid nodded, moving ahead of him out of the door, checking swiftly to see if anyone was watching before walking out into the hall. Fillmore noticed that she put slightly more sway into her hips than she normally did. Grinning as he watched his girlfriend's backside, Fillmore followed her out.

* * *

"So Wilson, what you got to tell us?" Kapua's voice was rough, laced with a slight undertone of aggression. He wasn't violent, not yet, but there was the hint that he could be – if you pressed the wrong buttons.

Nicky Wilson gulped, his gaze flitting between the taller youth standing over him, and the petite blonde off to his side. Though the boy was aggressive, Wilson was reluctant to take his eyes off the girl. Even if Isis didn't already have a reputation, he'd have been wary of any one with _that_ gleam in their eyes.

"I-I know the-the name the gang – the gang who's been trying to steal y-your territory." Nicky stammered. He was quickly reconsidering whether this was a good idea. By telling Kapua this, Nicky was placing himself right in the middle between two _very_ powerful crime bosses. Though Kapua didn't know it yet, the people messing with his turf were no small fry.

"They're called Los Duendos, led by some guy who calls himself Samael. 'Bout three months before you got here Los Duendos came on the scene. They made it real big, real fast – they're organised you know? And they're scary. Samael – they say he's mean. A real tough kid you know?" Seeing Isis frown, Nicky back-pedalled. "Not that you guys aren't though, just that he's got a rep for it. Not saying that you don't have a rep, it's just –"

"Be quiet." Isis snapped, rolling her eyes at the bumbling informant. "Have you got anything else to tell us?" Nicky shook his head rapidly. "Then get out of here."

* * *

Fillmore watched Nicky scamper off down the hall before turning back to Ingrid. The girl had a slight frown on her face and she was chewing her lower lip thoughtfully.

"Those names mean something to you, don't they?"

Ingrid nodded. When she looked up, worry was evident in her large eyes. "I think we might be dealing with the devil himself."

* * *

**A/N: 1) Jack Zipes said everything from "Over the centuries" to "daily existance"**

**2) Apologies to anyone who feels this chapter is rather lacking in action, I basically just wanted to set the scene. Fillmore and Ingrid may act more mature than one would expect of 7th Graders, but that's why this fic is rated T. **

**As always please review.**


	2. Gerti

**Fillmore!**

**Today's Episode: Of Myths and Legends**

**Act 2: Gerti**

_"In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act."_

_- George Orwell_

* * *

Fillmore flopped tiredly down onto his bed, watching as Ingrid gracefully lowered herself onto the chair by his desk. She folded her arms over the back and rested her chin on them, watching him with warm, green eyes. It was a look she only ever gave him, and he liked it. Not that he would ever admit it – it sounded just a bit too sentimental. 

"So," he said conversationally, lying down to stare at the ceiling, "we have a name. We know who's trying to drive us out. You going to tell me why you haven't stopped frowning since you heard the name?" He sat up to see her reaction. Part of him wondered why she hadn't come to sit next to him on the bed, but he dismissed the thought as unimportant.

Ingrid sighed, rubbing her forehead tiredly as if trying to wipe away the frown lines sitting there. "I've never heard of these people before – not Samael or Los Duendos. But the names themselves are what's bothering me." She paused, turning to stare unseeingly out of the window. When she next spoke, her voice showed her worry. "The fact that anyone has decided to use such obscure names means that they know what they mean. And that's disturbing."

Fillmore frowned, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The gesture drew Ingrid's focus away from the window and back into the room. "Why?" he asked. "What is it about these names that's got you so freaked out."

Ingrid shook her head, eyes cast down. The skin around her mouth and eyes had tightened, urging Fillmore to slide off the bed and take the few steps needed so he could kneel beside her seat. Reaching up, he tilted her chin so she was looking him in the eyes; he let his worry for her show in his gaze. "Ingrid?"

Again she sighed, shaking herself before straightening; one of her hands unconsciously wrapped around his own.

"According to Talmudic Law," Ingrid said, "Samael was the name given to Lucifer before he fell from heaven. Over the centuries different writings have portrayed him in different ways. He's been accuser, seducer, and destroyer. In rabbinic lore he is identified as the chief of Satans and the Angel of death. In the Secrets of Enoch he is a prince of demons and a magician. He was a guardian angel of Esau and a patron of the sinful empire of Rome." She broke off, her hand tightening around her boyfriend's. "Fillmore do you realise what it means that a kid in our school is naming himself after _this?_ This guy has literally portrayed himself as the epitome of evil. And he's named his gang after his followers."

"I thought 'duendos' meant 'dwarfs'." Fillmore said, raising an eyebrow quizzically. At Ingrid's startled look, he shrugged. "I know a little Spanish."

Ingrid nodded, digesting the information before returning to the matter at hand. "Literally, yes, Los Duendos means 'The Dwarfs'. However, the folklore surrounding them is slightly different. They are the angels who got suspended between Heaven and Hell at the time of Lucifer's revolt." She paused, frowning as she tried to remember the rest of the tale. "So many angels were leaving Heaven, that God slammed the gates of Heaven shut and Los Duendos were caught on the outside. They were eternally suspended in Limbo."

"Fallen angels." Fillmore said, rocking back on his heels.

Ingrid sighed, nodding as she looked down into his face. "After a fashion."

They sat in silence for a few moments, Fillmore's thumb absently stroking patters on the back on Ingrid's hand as they both lost themselves in their own thoughts.

"So what now?" Ingrid asked, breaking the silence. Her voice was soft and her eyes were troubled, prompting Fillmore to pull her gently of the chair and into his lap. She sat there cradled in his arms, listening to his breathing and his heart beating in his chest. Slowly she felt the tension drain from her body. Sighing, Ingrid lifted her head up from where she'd let it rest of Fillmore's shoulder.

"There's nothing we can do right now, Ingrid." Fillmore said, "We'll just have to see what move he makes. It's cool. We got it a'ight?"

Ingrid smiled, laughing softly as Fillmore nudged her with his shoulder. "Yeah Fillmore, we got it."

Reaching behind her, Fillmore lifted a roll of papers off of the desk. Waving the X

Middle School blueprints, he smiled. "Want to help me start planning our next big heist? After all baby –"

"We're Bonnie and Clyde." Ingrid laughed, the shadow in her eyes displaced by the thought of Isis and Kapua's exploits.

* * *

The ringing of the phone, startled Vallejo from his sleep. Fumbling for the phone he kept on the nightstand, the junior commissioner groggily put the headpiece to his ear. Blearily, he peered at the display: 6:20 am. He groaned. "Hello?" 

"Vallejo." The sound of the woman's voice on the other end of the line, jarred Vallejo to immediate wakefulness.

"Principal Folsom?" Vallejo's voice had risen half an octave in surprise, and he fumbled to keep hold of the phone as he pushed himself upright in bed.

"Yes of course," the Principal said, voice showing her irritation. "I need you and the rest of the Safety Patrol at school immediately. Someone's spray painted all over the East wall. Get here and find out who defaced my school."

Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Vallejo swung his legs over the side of the bed. "With all due respect, Ma'am," Vallejo said, "isn't vandalism the concern of the adult authorities?"

Principle Folsom sighed irritably. "Vandalism, yes. A childish prank, no. This is just the work of a few miscreant kids. Understand Vallejo? No need to get the police involved. Now get to school." She hung up, before he had a chance to respond.

"Yes Ma'am." Vallejo muttered to the telephone. Heaving a sigh, he dialed Fillmore's number.

* * *

Fillmore frowned as he ducked under the yellow crime scene tape that had been placed six yards back from the East wall. A handful of Safety Patrollers were collecting evidence, hiding yawns behind gloved hands as they scraped paint and took photographs. Light was just beginning to creep into the winter sky, but most of the light came from street lamps and penlights. The fluorescent bulbs cast everything in an eerie, yellow hue. 

Looking around, Fillmore saw a crumpled Junior Commissioner standing next to a sleep tousled Ingrid Third, who was huddled into her winter jacket. She was nodding as she listened to what Vallejo was telling her, but her gaze periodically moved over to the wall and back again. Noticing the frown that was creasing her features, Fillmore turned his attention to the wall.

Black spray paint had run as it dried, evidence that someone had stood to close to the wall as they painted. The running lines made the image difficult to discern at first glance, but as the image finally became clear, Fillmore swore. Standing at least six feet high was a crude depiction of a devil's head, stark against the red brick of the school. Catching Ingrid's eye, Fillmore could see she'd made the same connection. Jerking his head at a nearby tree, he waited whilst she excused herself from Vallejo before walking with her out of earshot from their friends.

Bracing one arm above his head, against the tree, Fillmore gently pulled Ingrid round so she was shielded from view by his body.

"A devil head. Fillmore you know what that means. Someone found out we learnt Samael's name." Ingrid whispered. Her eyes flickered nervously from her partner's face to where she knew the rest of the Safety Patrol to be.

"Dawg Ingrid, I was hoping to avoid this kind of thing." Fillmore said.

"I know," she replied, placing on hand on his arm to calm him down, "me too. Neither of us were trying to start a turf war, we were just trying to establish our names, find the competition, take them down. This isn't our fault. All we have to do is back down. It'll set us back, but maybe we should."

"No." Fillmore said, "We've worked too hard to establish Isis and Kapua's reputation. We're so close to being fully plugged into the scene Ingrid. We've got contacts, people willing to work for us – just a few more weeks and we'll have what we need to go down in X Middle School history." Noticing the hard edge to his tone, Ingrid wondered briefly if this was what he was like when he was first a thug: ruthless, calculating.

"I'm not sure I want to go up against a guy who names himself after Satan, Fillmore. Not when it's just us – we'd need an army to take this guy down."

"And we'll have one," Fillmore said, brown eyes holding green ones, "When the time comes, Ingrid we'll have one. We have to."

Ingrid nodded once, eyes flicking again over Fillmore's shoulder seeking out glimpses of the Safety Patrol. Her eyes found his again and words passed between them – things unsaid, and embraces that couldn't be exchanged. Sighing, Fillmore pushed himself off the tree and turned, nodding once before heading over to where Anza was taking notes.

Ingrid watched him walk away, sighing at the fact that once again they'd hidden in front of their friends. Looking away, she froze as she found the eyes of the Junior Commissioner watching her. He had an odd look on his face. Dropping her gaze, Ingrid ducked her head and walked calmly to where Tehama was collecting scrapings of paint. She could feel Vallejo's eyes on her the whole way.

* * *

Encased in shadows, a boy smiled. The boss was going to love this. By the time kids got to school everyone would know that Los Duendos had branded the school with their mark. Isis and Kapua wouldn't ignore such an open challenge. They would fight back, and when they did Los Duendos would be ready for them. No one could take them not, not whilst Samael led them. 

Now for phase two of the operation.

By lunch time, every kid in X Middle School knew that Isis and Kapua were fighting Los Duendos for territory.

"Games over, Kapua. Hand over whatever you've got."

Fillmore chuckled darkly as he faced off against Joseph Anza. He felt a flicker of triumph that the other Safety Patroller could look him in the face and not know it was him. Smirking, he felt the scar he wore as Kapua stretch across his cheekbone.

"It ain't over till I say it's over cracker-boy." Fillmore said. Smirking, he felt the scar he wore as Kapua stretch across his cheekbone.

Quickly taking in his surroundings, Fillmore took quick stock of the diversions available to him. Left: The Calculator Club was heading toward him – not enough. Right: Three sixth grade girls were giggling, chasing each other as they scrambled for a magazine one was holding – no. Behind: The Bocce Ball Team was moving their equipment – perfect.

Backing up a few steps, Fillmore grinned wolfishly as Anza followed his lead and moved toward him. Taking one last step, Fillmore reached behind him and swung the rolling crate of bocce balls forward, toppling it over and spilling it over the floor, knocking Anza down.

Knowing Anza could handle himself, Fillmore turned and took off down the halls.

* * *

Anza winced as he levered himself off the floor, looking up just in time to see Kapua take off. Cursing himself, he pushed himself to his feet and glared in the direction the other boy had run, knowing that that section of the school was a rat warren; he'd never find Kapua there. Scowling, Anza turned and headed back toward HQ. Something wasn't right about Kapua Tutuola – he knew the hallways of X far too well.

* * *

Running, Fillmore's body acted on reflex, drawing on memories of previous heists and previous chases. Without even thinking about it, he dodged students, displays, anything that could pose a threat to his get away. His body moved without his mind being engaged – leading him down his old escape routes, down hallways he hadn't run in months. As his feet led him through the twisting corridors of X, his thoughts turned to Ingrid. He knew that even as he was running, she would be too. They'd planned this – hit two targets at once, make a statement. 

He'd been careful, and he knew Ingrid would have been the same. No physical evidence, nothing left behind, only a Safety Patroller's intuition when he saw him standing in the halls. He had to hand it to Anza, the guy had good intuition. It was what made him such a good bodyguard – he knew when something was off about a situation.

Turning one last corner, Fillmore smiled as he saw the service entrance to the school come into sight. Slowing his pace, Fillmore slipped through it, making sure not to be seen by any of the care-taking staff as he crept around the side of the school building. He crouched, waiting, blood rushing in his ears, looking for the glimpse of blonde hair that would signal Ingrid's arrival.

He heard tarmac crunch behind him and he spun, his breath leaving in a sigh as he saw Ingrid standing there. Wordlessly, he handed her a can of spray paint. Together, they made their way over to the East Side of the school.

The crime scene tape had been wrapped up, and a layer of fast-drying paint had been brushed over the offending graffiti – the spray paint itself proving too hard to remove from the bricks themselves.

Grimly, Ingrid nodded to Fillmore signally for him to keep watch as she got to work. The rattle of the spray can and the quick hiss of paint, were the only sounds to be heard as Third set about making the largest statement and criminal at X Middle School had ever made.

Periodically they switched, allowing each other to breath something other than fumes. As the final bell rang, Ingrid and Fillmore stood back to admire their handy-work. There, scrawled all over the wall – from top to bottom, over and over again – was Isis and Kapua's tag: 'You're on Trickster ground.'

As students began spilling out of the school, the pair ran.

* * *

Staring at the crime scene photos littering his desk, Vallejo sighed. Resting his elbows on the desk, he ground the heel of his palms into his eyes in the vain hopes that if he scrubbed hard enough he'd stop seeing the mess he was in. In four days Isis and Kapua had tagged every wall on the outside of X Middle School. No one had seen them, they had never been caught – it couldn't even be proved that they were the perpetrators, but he knew – the Trickster's were laying claim to X Middle School, drawing out the competition. 

On the bright side, Vallejo noted, at least the competition wasn't anonymous anymore. Thanks to Los Duendos making their presence known four days ago, the Safety Patrol had managed to find out the name behind it all: Samael. They hadn't yet placed a face to a name, but it was something to tell Principal Folsom when she came barreling down to HQ demanding to know what progress the Safety Patrol had made.

Tiredly, he cast his gaze out of his office windows, surveying the Patrollers still lingering at HQ. At his desk, Danny was examining his camera, frowning as he contemplated the device. In the far corner, two of the junior officers were running over case notes, if the files piled up on the desk were anything to go by. It was the officers in the foreground however, that caught his attention. Half turned away from the window, Joseph Anza was frowning, murmuring quietly to Karen Tehama, who was watching him with a neutral expression. Vallejo knew that look. It was the one Karen wore every time Anza did something she didn't like, but would put up with because he outranked her.

Sighing, Vallejo shook his head. Most of the Safety Patrol ignored the intricacies of the official hierarchy. There was the Junior Commissioner, the Senior Patrollers, and the Junior Patrollers; that was all anyone paid attention to. Differences in rank or seniority within a partnership were simply ignored. Ingrid and Fillmore were a prime example – Fillmore had more experience, more time on the force, but he'd never dream of pulling rank on Third. They were equals and they acted like it. Not so with Joseph and Karen. Initially, Anza had been more than happy to treat Karen as an equal – had in fact come to Vallejo numerous times, at the beginning, when Karen refused to call him by his first name. But Tehama was a stickler for the rules, she acknowledged the slight difference in rank and stuck by it – she behaved the same with everyone on the force – and for all Anza's protestations, Vallejo had watched as the laid back officer, became dependent on Tehama's attitude. He pulled rank now, too often for Vallejo's liking, but there was nothing the Junior Commissioner could do. Technically there was nothing wrong with Anza's actions, but he worried that Anza's relationship with the other Patrollers would suffer for it. The young bodyguard had tried pulling rank on Ingrid the other day, and Fillmore had gotten up in his face. Nothing had come of it, Anza had backed off, apologised, but the damage had been done.

Shaking his head, Vallejo turned his attention from the scene out the window. Too much was going on at the moment. Aside from the crimes, and the rising problem of Anza's attitude, he was sure something was going on with Fillmore and Third. They were disappearing at odd times, simultaneously showing up late for shift. There was more going on in their heads than the Safety Patrol, he would put money on it – watching them was like watching Isis and Kapua – but he couldn't prove it. He'd watched them, had asked Frank Bishop to watch them, but –

A knock on the door, interrupted his thoughts. It was Karen.

"I'm heading home Chief." she said. Vallejo looked at her, frowning. Karen Tehama was the best CSI on the force, and for all her adherence to rank, she had a fiery personality – she was the type to fight for the underdog. But recently, Vallejo was worried that the 'spark' was dying from her eyes. She no longer threw herself into cases with the same fervour she used to. Maybe it was a phase, something she'd work through, but Vallejo couldn't help wondering if Joseph was the cause.

He blinked, and focused on the girl still hovering in the doorway. "Sure, Karen. See you tomorrow."

Tehama smiled slightly, "Bye Chief." She nodded and shut the door. Vallejo watched as she walked out of HQ, casting one last look at Anza before entering the hallways of the quiet school. Looking at Anza, Vallejo saw him staring at the door, a slight look of wistfulness on his face.

* * *

Fillmore shuddered as he hurried up the steps to Ingrid's house. The wind blew icy and hard, shaking the branches of the tree overhead. Wrapping his knuckles against the door, Fillmore shifted from one foot to the other, blowing on his hands to warm them. 

The door opened, light spilling out into the night. Fillmore blinked rapidly, eyes adjusting to the light.

"Fillmore?" Squinting past the light, Fillmore saw the outline of Ariella Third in the doorway. Raising one hand in greeting, he grimaced.

"Hey Ariella." He said, "Ingrid home?"

The elder Third sister nodded, moving aside to let him into the house.

"Ingrid's up in her room." Ariella said as Fillmore stomped his shoes off on the welcome mat. Smiling his thanks, Fillmore made to walk up the stairs when Ariella's voice stopped him.

"You and Ingrid haven't joined an art class without telling me, have you?" Ariella asked. Fillmore looked back and noticing Ariella biting her lip.

"No," he said, turning fully around. "Why?" Art was Ariella's life and the thought that Ingrid had joined an art class other than her's was probably bothering her.

Ariella sighed and shook her head. "No reason, its just that lately Ingrid's clothes have had flecks of paint on them and I noticed yours have too, so I just wondered—" she left the sentence hanging and Fillmore felt his pulse speed up.

"No not art class, we were just re-painting HQ. We must not have been careful enough." Watching Ariella's reaction, Fillmore prayed that she bought the lie. He breathed a sigh of relief when Ariella smiled.

"You should have told me, I would have come down and helped." Fillmore smiled, though it was more like a grimace, nodding as Ariella walked into the kitchen with a wave.

Closing his eyes, Fillmore slumped momentarily, before turning and take the stairs two at a time. He knocked twice on Ingrid's door, barely waiting for the muffled 'Come in', before he threw the door open.

Ingrid was sat at her desk, textbooks laid open before her. at the sound of the door hastily shutting, she looked up, starting in surprise when she saw Fillmore standing there.

"Cornelius?" Unconsciously, Fillmore smiled. She did that sometimes, called him by his first name when she wasn't thinking – he liked it. No one else said his name the way she did. He realised he was still standing there, grinning foolishly when she moved out of her chair toward him.

Blinking, he smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, hugging her to him quickly before leading her over to sit on the bed. A slight frown marring her features, Ingrid followed.

"So," she said, "why are you here?."

Fillmore grinned, "Dawg Ingrid, I'm hurt. I couldn't just want to see you?" He winked at her, laying on the charm for deliberate affect.

Ingrid chuckled, a light blush colouring her cheeks. "You could, but that's not it." She shifted round, to get a better look at his face, drawing one leg up onto the bed and tucking it under her. "So what's up?"

The laughter slowly died from Fillmore's face, making Ingrid frown in concern. "Fillmore?"

"I think Vallejo's on to us." He said. Beside him, Fillmore felt the young genius still. Tension vibrated down her arms, and the look on her face was one of guilt and trepidation.

"What makes you say that?"

Fillmore shook his head at the tone in Ingrid's voice: it was one of forced casualness; she was trying to separate herself from her emotions.

Sighing, he got up off the bed to pace around the room. "Have you noticed Frank Bishop hanging around more lately?" he asked, running a hand over her record collection.

Ingrid postponed an examination of her fingertips to look at him, "A little." She answered, closing her eyes momentarily as her photographic memory skimmed over the last week. "I just thought he was stopping by to talk to Vallejo. You know they've been hanging out more after the shredding incident."

Fillmore nodded, "I know that, but man, he's been watching us too closely for my liking. You know what a good profiler he is – he'll have figured it out, and he'll have told Vallejo. I don't know what he'll do."

"He'll kick us off the force," Ingrid said, her voice soft, "He'll have to." Fillmore looked at her then and an unvoiced question passed between them: _Is it worth it?_ The answer was instantaneous, and the same on both sides: _Yes._

Wordlessly, Ingrid stood and walked over to her boyfriend, her mentor, and her partner in crime. Standing on tiptoe she brushed a chaste kiss over his lips, running her palm along his jaw. Looking into his eyes, she knew he blamed himself for this - for the situation they now found themselves in.

"It was my choice, Cornelius," Ingrid whispered, running her thumb along his cheek. "It took two of us to get this far."

Fillmore nodded turning his head slightly, to kiss her palm, wrapping his fingers around her own. "I know." Sighing, he wrapped her in his arms, dropping a gentle kiss on to her hair. Feeling her settle herself into his embrace, Fillmore made a promise to himself that whatever happened, he'd protect _her_ – he wasn't going to drag her down with him. She was worth more than that.

* * *

**A/N: as always, reviews encourage me and make me feel loved.**


	3. Abaddon

**Fillmore!**

**Today's Episode: Of Myths and Legends**

**Act 3: Abaddon**

_Gandhi said, "Better to be violent if there's violence in our hearts than to put on the cloak of non-violence to cover impotence."_

_Gandhi also said, "I object to violence because when it appears to do good, the good is only temporary. The evil it does is permanent."_

* * *

Karen Tehama kicked viciously at a frozen twig, her already dark mood increasing when the twig failed to break with a satisfying crack. Not normally one to allow anger to dominate her, Karen failed to hold on to the fury and frustration an early morning phone call from Anza had inspired. She respected Joseph - respected his worth ethic, his technique – but when he got an idea into his head he was like a dog with a bone – regardless of how absurd the notion was. Shaking her head, she tried to clear her head of all unwelcome thoughts. She was less than a block from school and she would have to focus once she was there. Anza could be ignored for now.

* * *

Breathing in the darkness, the boy known as Samael, smiled. He liked the dark, enjoyed the dark, preferred it to the light. Moving forward with the practised ease of one who has travelled a route many times before, Samael wandered through the room. Though his right hand trailed at his side, his left hand remained in his pocket, fingers caressing the marble he kept there.

He stopped, withdrawing his hand and holding the captive marble up before his eyes. It glowed - at least that's how it seemed to him. The marbled glowed with an ethereal light, absorbing the darkness into its bright, white depths and concentrating them in that one streak of red that marred its surface. The marble would be perfect, were in not for that one line. He liked that. So close to perfection and yet perpetually marked.

The creaking of the door, the quick spill of light and its abrupt demise, moved his attention from the marble to the doorway behind him. The hand holding its prize slipped back into his pocket and he turned, retreating further into the dark.

"Yes?"

The boy who had just entered the room, shivered at the sound of the voice. It was as though broken shards of glass had been ground up and melted into the tones of Samael's voice.

"Kapua's been making trouble in J Building. Trying to sway people there. It's not clear if he knows they're ours or if he's just looking for support, but it could be trouble. Isis too." Having finished his report, the boy fidgeted nervously, eager to be dismissed and to put some distance between himself and the Crime Lord. When Samael didn't say anything, the boy who had delivered the message decided to cut his losses and made a break for it. Samael let him go. The boy was of no consequence.

Turning, he looked toward the figure that had been standing in the deepest shadows all this time.

"Well?"

The boy in the shadows stepped forward. Tanned skin, and dark hair were lost to the gloom, the only evidence of a presence being the flash of white teeth in the dark when he smiled.

"The boy's report matches our own observations. The tagging of every wall in the school was by no means the last of The Trickster's actions. They are challenging us and our authority. It may be that right now they are willing to share, but if we keep pushing them, they will fight for keeps." His voice was bland, but there was an undercurrent of anticipation – this boy wanted Isis and Kapua to fight.

"Good," Samael said, "Let's push them farther shall we? Find Kapua, make it very clear to him, that he and Isis are playing in the big-leagues now. Do not damage him, but make sure he knows Los Duendos are to be taken seriously." Here he paused, savouring the dramatic effect. "Oh, and make sure Isis knows just how close he came to be truly hurt."

His henchman chuckled cruelly, nodding once to his boss before making his way out of the room, in order to round up Los Duendos' pet thugs.

* * *

Watching from the corner of his eye, for a glimpse of an orange belt, Fillmore moved purposefully through the hallways of X Middle School. Though his shoulders were slouched, and his hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his well-worn jeans, he still exuded the air of power and menace that Kapua Tutuola had become well known for. Satisfied that there were no Safety Patrol members patrolling the area, Fillmore headed into the boys bathroom. He needed someplace to just think, his meeting with Augie – for all that the low-life crook didn't recognise him – had not gone well.

Samael had gotten to Augie before Isis and Kapua had, and now the snitch was terrified. All he could do was stammer incoherent sentences as his eyes searched desperately for some sort of escape. In the end Fillmore had let him go. Augie was clearly terrified to simply be seen with Kapua – he was in no condition to be talking. Sighing Fillmore braced himself against the sink and stared at his reflection. It bothered him that Augie had been that frightened. Sure, Augie intimidated easily – he wasn't a big guy – but usually, the con-artist was happy to sell out to the highest bidder. This time though, Augie had refused to even utter Samael's name. He wouldn't even say Los Duendos – he just kept saying 'they' and 'some people'. What had Samael done to scare Augie so badly? What had he threatened him with? Augie had stammered something about 'eyes' were Los Duendos watching him? Was that why he was so scared?

With a growl of frustration, Fillmore banged his fist against the ceramic rim of the sink, glaring at the scum lined faucet. He and Ingrid needed a firmer grip on Los Duendos. They needed to find out everything they could – they needed enough information to bring Samael down – or everything they had worked for would fall down around their ears.

So engrossed was he in his own thoughts, that Fillmore failed to notice the creaking of the bathroom door, which signalled another's arrival. It wasn't until he felt large hands clamp down on each of his shoulders, and his gaze shot up to see two other boy reflected in the mirror, that Fillmore even realised he wasn't alone. Acting on instinct Fillmore tried to ram his elbows back into his captors, only to find his arms immobilised, pinned to his sides by the two brutes, both of whom had to be nearly double his body weight. Cursing himself for his inattention Fillmore stilled, glaring at them in the mirror.

Though he had stopped struggling, the two thugs didn't let go. Fillmore was given a split seconds warning as the grip on his left tightened, before his was flung into the nearest wall. He managed to protect his head, taking the brunt of the impact on his shoulders and back, but the blow knocked the wind from him, forcing Fillmore to stay where he was whilst he heaved in lungfuls of air. Pushing himself upright, Fillmore watched warily as the two brutes advanced, fists raised to match his own. The one of the left kicked out, forcing Fillmore to roll away along the wall to avoid being hit. No sooner had he stopped moving than the one on the right advanced. Fillmore was forced to duck and roll – his mobility limited by the wall at his back – as the thugs aimed blows. As Fillmore dodged a rather sloppy punch to his midsection he knew the brutes were just playing with him. Pinned as he was against the wall, the two thugs had ample opportunity to do serious damage, but instead they resorted to kicks and punches he could easily out manoeuvre. What were they playing at?

The door creaked once again, and out of the corner of his eye, Fillmore saw a new boy enter the room. He silently prayed that the boy would be smart enough to turn tail and run before these two thugs turned on him, but instead the boy sauntered calmly into the room, positioning himself in such a way that Fillmore would have to choose who to watch.

That one movement told Fillmore all he needed to know. He and Sonny had used that move countless of times; it was the move of a crook – one who wanted to ensure that their prey would have to compromise themselves, thus ensuring success. Making a decision, Fillmore removed his attention from the two brutes in front of him and turned his head to examine the newcomer. This boy was obviously their leader – the cold superiority, and the way he paid no mind to the bullies, was evidence to this effect. Shorter than his cronies, and whipcord lean, he was a contrast to them in every way. Where as both thugs were pale skinned and blue eyed – brothers perhaps – this boy was tanned, his colouring dark; cheekbones suggesting Native American heritage.

Noticing Fillmore's attention on him, the dark-haired boy smiled. "Well, well, perhaps you are smarter than you look Kapua. At least you had the sense to recognise the real threat in this room."

Rolling his eyes, Fillmore let his mouth curl in a sneer, displaying his contempt for the boy in front of him; confidence was a fine trait, arrogance was not. "If you were that dangerous," he said, "you wouldn't have had your thugs come in ahead of you. You'd have come in first yourself."

The leader laughed softly, a menacing sound that reverberated off the tiled walls of the bathroom. "Now Kapua, you and I both now that, that's not entirely true. I am dangerous – not because I am as physically imposing as our friends here – but because they follow my command." Fillmore frowned his eyes darting quickly to the two thugs cornering him before re-alighting on his tormentor. "You see, Kapua, in the world of crime there is a very clear hierarchy and in this hierarchy I am of high rank. That means I have the potential to be very dangerous."

* * *

The leader watched as Kapua pressed his back more firmly against the wall. The boy's dark skin was flushed with anger, most likely at himself for dropping his guard as he had. Jackson looked on with interest as Kapua's gaze flicked between himself and the two Los Duendos thugs he had brought with him for the rendezvous. As Kapua's gaze once again found his own, he had the sinking feeling that in the few moments they had been talking Kapua had learnt something about him that the boy had not meant to reveal.

He scowled, flicking the fingers of his left hand just enough to prompt the larger of the two boys to slam his fist into the wall – a hair's breadth from Kapua's head. The young crime-lord's eyes went momentarily wide, his breath barely catching in his chest, before his face was once again the mask of malevolence and arrogance that he wore in the halls of X Middle School. The leader advanced, moving between his two thugs to stand just out of Kapua's reach. He may have been grandstanding with the crime-lord but he wasn't foolish. He had seen Kapua pull a bully off a Trickster informer just the other week and knew, that though Kapua was not as muscled as some thugs, he had just as much potential for violence. The look in Kapua's eyes now, was one of severe dislike.

He smirked, but knew better than to make any sudden movements. He did not want to provoke Kapua into doing something rash – the boy might actually do some damage before Los Duendos' thugs managed to stop him. He decided to leave the crime-lord with one final word of advice.

"You would do well not to anger Samael, Kapua. He is the most senior amongst us, and the resources at his disposal far outmatch yours. Bow down, get out, and give the school to Los Duendos and there will be no need for any of us to express our … philosophical differences."

Kapua's only response was to spit in his face. A fist flew, and Kapua slumped to the ground, with a groan. He glared up at the thugs standing around him, one hand pressed to his side.

The leader sneered, wiping the spittle away with a flick of the wrist. "Wrong move." He hissed before turning on his heel and marching out of the bathroom. The two henchman followed, but not before one of them stamped his foot close to the kneeling crime-lord in warning.

* * *

Fillmore waited for five minutes to pass, before he pushed to his feet and went to find Ingrid.

* * *

Carefully, Ingrid plucked the coloured contacts from her eyes and settled them in their carry case. Reaching up, she gently removed the pins that held the blond wig in place, shaking her head in relief as her own black tresses fell around her face. Examining the wig in her hands, Ingrid paused. Usually when she looked in the mirror after having completed her transformation she would see Isis staring back at her – confident, sassy, and ready for mischief. But today when she had looked, she had seen only Ingrid, peering out at her through a mask. Now Ingrid stared back at her, eyes confused and sad.

Running her fingers idly over the glass, Ingrid wondered who Fillmore saw when he looked at her these days. She wondered if they were losing themselves to Isis and Kapua – if the life they had once again immersed themselves in, was swallowing them whole. As she placed the blond wig on top of a manikin's head, she frowned. Being Isis let her act out a fantasy, but it wasn't real. Kapua, the thief, was interesting – but he wasn't the guy she had fallen for - that was Fillmore. Though she was secure in his affection for her, she sometimes wondered if he preferred Isis – a girl who was openly seductive and alluring – to the girl-genius who carefully guarded her emotions.

Sighing, Ingrid shook her head, chewing on her fingernail in a rare nervous gesture. She knew that playing at being Bonnie and Clyde had its own rewards – the adrenaline rush was something she craved – but at the same time Ingrid worried that the cost was too high. Several times in the last few days Karen had caught her eye, and the look she had received stated clearly that the young CSI knew there was something Ingrid wasn't telling her. She had even gone so far as to ask if there was anything Ingrid had wanted to share, but Ingrid had declined with a shake of her head and a forced smile. Closing her eyes, Ingrid could still see the look of hurt in her friend's eyes as she glanced significantly to Fillmore and back before walking away.

Biting her lip, Ingrid started as she heard the door to the supply closet open. Cautiously, lifted the mirror from the wall, manoeuvring it until she could peek around the screen that hid her changing area. She breathed a sigh of relief when she recognised Fillmore's profile.

Stepping out from behind the screen, Ingrid gasped as she realised Fillmore was hunched slightly and his hand was pressed firmly to his side. His eyes snapped up, his posture relaxing when he saw his girlfriend standing there. Flashing her smile that looked more like a grimace, Fillmore stumbled over to a crate of cleaning supplies and sat down.

Ingrid crossed quickly to his side, kneeling on the cold concrete floor. "What happened?" she asked, gently lifting Fillmore's hand away from his side.

"Got jumped by some thugs." Fillmore winced as Ingrid pealed his shirt up, revealing a bruise that had already taken on the sickly yellow hue of a deep bruise – visible even against Fillmore's dark skin.

Tilting his head back so that it rested against the wall, Fillmore revelled in the feeling on Ingrid's cool fingers against his skin. he stroked his hand down Ingrid's arm, prompting a chuckle from the girl. Looking down, he met her emerald gaze. Sitting up, Ingrid pressed a chaste kiss to her boyfriend's lips. She felt him smile, at the same moment that one of his hands wrapped around her waist, tugging her closer.

Slowly, Ingrid pulled away, smiling as she felt Fillmore scowl at the loss of contact. Patting her boyfriend fondly on the leg as she stood, Ingrid let loose an uncharacteristic giggle as he pulled her onto his lap. Fillmore smiled – he was the only one who got to see her in these unguarded moments, and he cherished every one. Settling herself more firmly on Fillmore's lap, Ingrid turned to him with a serious expression.

"Now, are you going to tell me who exactly it was who hit you." As Fillmore opened his mouth to speak, she placed a finger on his lips, arching an eyebrow. "Be specific."

Fillmore smirked slightly, nodding his agreement. "It was Los Duendos." He said "Two of their thugs cornered me, before a third joined them. He told me to back down and not anger Samael – his warning was for both Isis and Kapua."

Ingrid looked down at him. Her back had stiffened, and there was a tension in her posture that hadn't been there before. "Anything else?" she asked.

Fillmore sighed, nodding. "Yeah. The main dude said something…Ingrid, I think Los Duendos are M.S.C.C." Fillmore instantly regretted his words, as Ingrid shot up off his lap and whirled to face him.

"What?" she demanded. Fillmore winced, if the anger in her gaze hadn't been an indication, the ice seeping into her tone would have been – Ingrid Third was mad.

"Dawg, Ingrid. I should have said that first – I just…" he trailed off, unsure how to continue – or even why Ingrid was so angry.

As quickly as it had come, Ingrid's anger seemed to fade. He realised she was worried – that the mention of the M.S.C.C had frightened her. He had always wondered if Ingrid was as unaffected by her run in with Adelie Johnson as she had pretended to be – he supposed he had his answer.

Standing, he drew Ingrid into the circle of his arms, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. "It'll be okay, Ingrid. It'll be okay."

He felt her nod against him, before breaking gently away. "What made you think they were M.S.C.C.?" she asked.

Fillmore shrugged. "The way they spoke, what they said." he replied. "The guy who was leading them, made reference to a chain of command."

"Okay then." Ingrid said, heading toward the door. "You get changed and put some ice on that bruise. I'm going to try and find O'Conner – see if she knows anything."

Fillmore frowned but acquiesced. His ribs had begun to protest and he knew Ingrid's words made sense. "Come to mine for dinner tonight a'ight?" He said. "We can go over what we know." Though he cited work, Fillmore secretly hoped just to spend some time with his girlfriend. Their double lives had been eating away at the time they could simply spend with each other and though he had said they would talk about work, Fillmore intended to do nothing of the sort.

Ingrid smiled, seeing through her boyfriend's feeble excuse. Part of her suspected that he wanted to make sure she was okay after dealing with M.S.C.C personnel. "Sure Fillmore." She said, "I'll see you at your place. Late" She waved a quick goodbye, before slipping out through the door.

Fillmore addressed an empty room "Peace out, Ingrid."

* * *

Ingrid sighed as she sat down in one of the chairs Cadet Major Bridget O'Conner indicated; She knew she would have to be very careful in this meeting. O'Conner had no notion that Ingrid and Fillmore were secretly leading a double life – all she knew was that they were both Safety Patrollers, investigating the rise in gang activity in X Middle School. As Bridget took a seat opposite her, Ingrid spoke.

"Major O'Conner, we have reason to believe that a gang in X Middle School, known as Los Duendos has ties to the M.S.C.C. Would you know anything about that?" Ingrid made sure her voice retained the calm professionalism of a detached Patrol Officer. O'Conner had be trained to notice things most people missed, it wouldn't do for her to pick up on a subtle change in tone which belied Ingrid's vested interest in the situation.

To her surprise, O'Conner closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. Ingrid briefly wondered if the light was doing anything to ease her obvious headache. They were sat in one of the underground offices of M.S.C.C. HQ and the constant flickering of the fluorescent lights, was enough to give anyone a migraine.

"After the whole thing with Johnson went down," Bridget said, "we went through our ranks with a fine toothed comb. Anyone suspected of being plugged into the crime circuit was thrown out. We couldn't afford to have our members trying to rule the criminal underground the way Adelie did."

"Did it ever occur to you that these cadets – cadets who had been trained to utilise all resources available – might take over the crime rings anyway? What were you doing just throwing them out?" Ingrid asked incensed. Adelie Johnson had been dangerous and she had nearly ruled all of X Middle School. Members of the M.S.C.C that were like her, grouped together en masse, could prove disastrous for X.

"What were we supposed to do, Officer Third?" Bridget demanded, rounding on the petite Safety Patrol Officer. "We had no proof, only suspicions and intuition. Our officers are trained, day in and day out, to cover their tracks. Johnson got sloppy; we had a chance to use her own psychosis against her. Not. Everyone. Is. Johnson." Ingrid could hear the emphasis on the last four words. Bridget O'Conner had not like Adelie Johnson. "We couldn't keep them, but we didn't have enough to court martial them or turn them over to you. Our hands were tied." A bitter smile twisted the red-head's lips. "You know we lost nearly half our force in that cull?" O'Conner shook her head tiredly, and for the first time, Ingrid noticed that her face was thinner, and that there were faint, dark smudges under her eyes. Ingrid wondered just what toll Johnson's betrayal had taken on the M.S.C.C and those who truly valued its mantra.

"But now we've got a small army of highly trained, bitter criminals-in-the-making walking the hallways of X." Ingrid said, shaking her head.

"Yeah," Bridget replied, pinching the bridge of her nose once again and closing her eyes, "have fun with that."

Ingrid sighed, giving the cadet major one final shake of her head before leaving the office. It was clear O'Conner knew absolutely nothing about Los Duendos – which left them no further forward.

As she hauled herself up on of the hidden ladders that led into M.S.C.C HQ, Ingrid was glad that she had managed to find O'Conner without crossing paths with any other cadets. She did not trust the M.S.C.C.

The setting sun, hit Ingrid's eyes, as she once again emerged above ground. Shielding her eyes, Ingrid failed to notice the group of figures standing the shade of a nearby tree, or the way their eyes flickered between her, and the entrance to the M.S.C.C

* * *

**A/N: 1) apologies for any spelling or grammatical errors. I am very tired as I upload this and consequently am likely to have missed things**

**2) For any readers wondering what's up with the random title names, I decided to name each title after a mythological person or event that has something to do with a theme raised in the chapter. Humour me.**

**3) Thank you to all those who reviewed the last two chapters and kept me encouraged. Criticism on this chapter is greatly appreciated as I fell I am losing my characters slightly and they are becoming to OOC. Thanks.**


	4. Alathea

**Fillmore!**

**Today's Episode: Of Myths and Legends**

**Act 4: Alathea**

_"Crime butchers innocence to secure a prize, and innocence struggles with all its might against the attempts of crime."_

_Robespierre _

* * *

Fillmore stared at his dark ceiling, the only illumination in the room the eerie red glow of his digital clock. Blinking slowly, he tried to force his mind blank of the days events. But for all dinner with the Ingrid and his family had been a pleasant affair, filled with the affectionate chatter and gentle teasing that marked the Fillmore household as a loving one, it hadn't been enough to eradicate the tension in his system.

Unfortunately, the pressure of juggling both a double-life and their illicit relationship was beginning to take its toll – both on Ingrid and himself. His girlfriend had mentioned Karen's questioning and Fillmore was sure that Vallejo suspected something. He had even caught Anza regarding him with a strange expression. He doubted that their suspicions were the same, but the mere fact that his and Ingrid's behaviour was telling enough for others to develop suspicions was a problem. Leading double lives was also beginning to affect their own behaviour at home. His mother had noted that his temper was shorter and Ingrid was becoming withdrawn; for all her assurances to the contrary, he couldn't help feeling that she blamed him for the distance that their secrecy had created between her and Karen.

Fillmore frowned, as he examined the intricacies of his ceiling, unable to see a viable solution to relieving the pressure he and Ingrid were feeling. Isis and Kapua had existed for months. After Johnson's fall from power, a void of sorts had opened up in the criminal underworld of X. The crime rings Adelie had once controlled, disbanded – there was no longer any one figure who maintained a majority control over the criminals of X. Very quickly, other contenders had emerged – individuals or groups who took advantage of the weakness to further their own agendas. Both Ingrid and Fillmore had realised the opportunity such a vacuum had presented and they had both realised the importance of establishing their own names in the criminal underworld. Less than three weeks following Johnson's downfall, rumours had begun to fly about a new gang, organised, relentless, led by one who was swiftly rising to the rank of Crime Lord. The investigative duo had reacted; desperate not to lose the opportunity, they had created Isis and Kapua, a pair who by their very nature would easily attain the influence and control they needed to ensure that they were part of the criminal framework of X Middle School.

However, learning the names of their main opponent had been rather harder. It had quickly become clear in the weeks following Isis and Kapua's 'arrival' at the school that all but this 'shadow group' would quickly crumble under the presence of two such strong factions. The lesser criminals had been quick to throw their allegiance to either party – with Isis and Kapua securing enough support to earn themselves the recognition as Crime Lords and to be dubbed as X Middle School's very own Bonnie and Clyde.

Sighing Fillmore rolled over onto his side, so that he was left examining his bedroom wall. He and Ingrid were in so deep now, that the only way they would be able to regain a sense of normalcy would be to end this 'turf war', once and for all. Yet, if they couldn't find the information they needed to bring down Samael, their whole operation would crumble under the weight of Los Duendos; the gang had already demonstrated that they were willing to resort to measures he and Ingrid wouldn't even consider.

Closing his eyes, Fillmore settled into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

Keeping an eye out for students or faculty in the immediate area, Ingrid skilfully jimmied the lock on a little-used access door to the school's basement. She would never have usually used this entry-way, but the janitor had been fixing a drain by her usual point of entry, and she couldn't risk being seen.

Stealing down into the damp, dimly lit concrete stairway, Ingrid suppressed an involuntary shiver. The smell of wet stone and old concrete invaded her nostrils and she wondered briefly why the school let the basement remain so damp. Surely it would weaken the foundations?

She crept silently, unwilling to risk being heard, through the maze of passages and rooms than comprised the school basement. Walking forward, she inhaled the scent of stale coolant. She stopped, all of a sudden, looking down on the floor. A toppled goal post, intended for ice hockey, lay within arms reach. She remembered the feel of the metal, cool and silky beneath her fingers. The hope that had flared when she touched it and the mistake she had made in looking to see what it was.

Pain burst suddenly in her neck, but Ingrid resisted the urge to rub the afflicted area. It was a phantom pain she knew – a memory of Johnson's aggression, nothing more. Shaking herself, she continued on down the corridor.

Softly, so softly, Ingrid continued to walk, the soles of her well-worn boots making no sound on the concrete floor. A left, then another left, and into a bare, stone room. A flick of a switch and weak, flickering light illuminated the space. The evidence that was once in the room was gone. The bonds that had once been secured around her ankles and wrists were removed, locked in an evidence vault somewhere. Resting her back against the wall, Ingrid slid slowly to the floor. In the back of her mind, a voice kept questioning as to why she kept coming here. Why did she keep doing this to herself?

Was it closure she was after? A perverse form of therapy? Or was it a warning, a reminder never to turn her back on a suspect again? Ingrid shook her head, arguing internally with her own private daemons. How many times had she promised Fillmore she was okay? Looked him in the eye and assured him that everything was fine? Did he believe her? Maybe.

Ingrid sighed, and ground her heels of her palms into her eyes. This wasn't okay – she wasn't okay. She knew that. This constant revisiting of a crime scene, her lies to one a person she trusted second only to her family – maybe even more than that – all indicated residual trauma.

She knew that what had happened between her and Johnson was not serious in light of some of the crimes that were committed in the wider world. But it had been real and it had been frightening. For all the Safety Patrol policed X Middle School they were still only children. Children are not supposed to knock each other out using pressure points, or tie each other up in school basements.

Ingrid was half-convinced that part of Johnson's psychosis was a direct result of the M.S.C.C environment. And now, there was an entire renegade force of ex-cadets loose in X Middle School. Frustrated Ingrid glared at the spot where Johnson had kept her bound. She _was_ convinced that Samael had been a high-ranking cadet within the M.S.C.C. but there was no way to find out who he was or where he was hiding out.

At a loss, Ingrid sat in the half-darkness, staring at nothing.

* * *

Months rolled on. Isis and Kapua became two of the biggest names of the criminal underground at X Middle School. Shrouded in mystery, the pair became the stuff of legends. They stole, everyone knew that, but no one knew who they sold to. They were ghosts – phantoms that haunted the underground but who were never caught.

The only name that intrigued people more, was that of Samael. Though Los Duendos were known, their crimes extraordinary no one knew who Samael was, and there was no way of proving a gang member's affiliation. No gang markings, no distinctive clothing or trends – just whispers on the wind and a spike of fear at the mention of the name.

Los Duendos and The Tricksters were rivals. X, now more so than ever, was a school divided. The underground threw their allegiance to either of the two crime lords, whilst the regular student body kept their heads down and tried to ignore the turf war raging all around them. The Safety Patrol were exhausted, Folsom was tearing her hair out. Too long had this conflict continued, and yet there was no end in sight.

Theories littered the Safety Patrol Head Quarters - each one examined and discarded in turn. No one had been able to form a cohesive theory – for all Joseph Anza thought he was close. (break)

Early morning light streamed in to Safety Patrol HQ, settling on the faces of two Safety Patrol Officers - the only inhabitants of the room at this hour.

"Anza we have been _over_ this." Karen cried, her patience finally tested to the limit. "I agree that both Fillmore and Ingrid have been distracted lately, but that could equally be attributed to lack of sleep or preoccupation with homework." The exasperation she felt was evident in her voice. For nearly a week now, Anza had cornered her each day to expand upon his theories about Isis and Kapua.

At first, she had been willing to listen, his theories were sound, reasonable – he hypothesised that the crime duo had memorised the blueprints of X Middle School in order to gain a better understanding of the school's layout – something that aided their efficient 'get-aways'. Unfortunately, he had quickly abandoned this idea, for reasons still wholly unknown to the young CSI, in favour of a far more ridiculous theory that Isis and Kapua were in fact Ingrid and Fillmore, leading a double life under assumed names.

"I'm telling you, it's the only explanation." Anza said, casting a glance in the direction of his partner Karen Tehama. The young CSI nursed a cup of hot cocoa, as she watched her superior pace around the room in agitation, periodically running his fingers through his hair - frustrated that his partner either couldn't or wouldn't see things his way. "Think about it." He told her. "Why are Ingird and Fillmore never available when we get a lead on The Tricksters? Why are they both periodically absent even though our case load is through the roof? This has been going on for months Karen, ever since Isis and Kapua appeared. And like the idiot I am, I only just realised."

Tehama shook her head, and took a deep breath. "Or maybe the reason you only just realised is because you're reaching. There is no conspiracy Anza. You're becoming desperate, we all are, but you're the only one grasping at straws. Have you even though about what you are saying? You're accusing the two best Patrollers on this force of undermining everything they have worked so hard to protect. How could you even think this of them?"

To this, Karen received no reply, but was forced to watch as Anza once again complete a circuit of the room. _Let it go, Joseph,_ she thought, _just let it go_.

She sat, lost in her thoughts, deliberately ignoring Anza's mutterings, swirling a stirrer idly in her mug of cocoa. She agreed that Ingrid and Fillmore were hiding something, but she didn't believe it to be anything as illicit as what Anza claimed.

She had seen, with the trained eye of a criminalist, the discreet touches, the whispered words, and the hidden sentiments. It was clear, to her at least, that the best two officers on the force had fallen for each other – hard.

Tehama understood why they were hiding. Though Vallejo was lenient, it was unlikely that he would ignore the fraternisation rules – they would be forced to choose each other or the Safety Patrol. Karen knew that they were both self-sacrificing enough that if push came to shove they would both choose their work over their relationship. She sympathised with them.

But at the same time she was jealous; jealous enough to have deliberately distanced herself from Ingrid. Her best friend now had, what she had wanted for so long. Her gaze slid, involuntarily, to where Anza was once again pacing the floor. Brash, sarcastic and fiery with everyone else, Tehama shrank from such emotion in front of her partner. There was always that fear that if she risked giving her emotions free reign in his presence she would reveal more than she had intended.

Karen was resigned to the fact that Anza would never look at her the way she wanted him to – he had a tendency to chase blondes – but she hoped and she dreamed. Promising herself, that one day, when it was safe to do so (when there was no risk of damaging their working relationship) she would tell him how she felt. Until then, she would content herself with listening to his theories and watch him pace a hole in the floor.

* * *

Anza stormed down the corridors of X Middle School. Everywhere, students scrambled to get out of his way, reluctant to draw the attention of a livid Safety Patroller.

Feet falling heavily on the linoleum floor, Anza followed the hallways to the furthest corner of X Middle School. He was angry that Karen refused to believe him – angry that the need for evidence that made her such a good CSI was undermining her faith in him. Nothing was more important to him than the his friendship with Karen and he knew that if he did not find the proof to satisfy her, this theory of his could threaten to tear them apart.

He was not about to abandon his theory. His fervour was ingrained in him, along with the dull ache that he felt at Ingrid and Fillmore's betrayal. Slumping against a wall, Anza fished a crumpled photograph out of his pocket. He'd found it at the bottom of his desk draw the other day and had shoved it into his jeans pocket without thinking. He looked at it now, shaking his head at how naïve he had been back then.

The photograph had been taken at the Christmas party. He stood there; arm slung casually around Karen's shoulders as she in turn leaned towards Ingrid who was standing between Fillmore's knees as he leaned against a desk. His eyebrows raised as he realised Ingrid had once hand casually resting on Fillmore's thigh, and he had a hand settled on her waist.

Before he had a chance to contemplate this further, a shout was heard and ahead of him students scattered like pins before a bowling ball. He looked up, to see Kapua Tutuola race down the hall towards him. Sheaves of paper were clutched to his chest, and his gaze was primarily focused on the hallways behind him. Moving forward, Anza prepared to cut him off.

Senses of full alert, the bodyguard trained Patroller was exquisitely alert of his surroundings. The girl to the left and behind him was frozen, was rolling a skateboard idly back and forth with her foot as she placed books into her locker – oblivious to the commotion down the hall. To the right was an intricate display for Amnesty, monitored by two students. Ahead of him, Kapua had just registered his presence.

The criminal's lip curled in a sneer and he picked up his speed, preparing to barrel past Anza and make his escape. As they came within five feet of each other, Kapua feigned left, before dodging right. Ordinarily, the move would have worked, as Anza had already instinctively reacted to Kapua's primary movement. However, the girl to his left, chose that moment to lose control of her skateboard and Anza jumped backwards as it hurtled past him.

His momentum carried him across the hall and into Kapua, knocking the other boy off balance and forcing him to chose between retaining hold of his prize and breaking his fall. Kapua chose the papers and the two boys crashed through the display, sending paper cranes and white envelopes flying in all directions. Kapua flipped to his feet, pushing back off his shoulder blades in order to create leverage. With a growl, Anza leapt up after him, lunging at the dark-skinned youth just in time to prevent his escape. Keeping one arm wrapped tightly around Kapua's bicep whilst the criminal struggled, Anza fisted one hand in the other boy's shirt and yanked him round to face him. There was only one person in the world he knew who used that move. It was time to confirm his suspicions. Staring into Kapua's face, Anza felt his eyes go wide with realisation, for all he had prepared himself for this moment.

Now that they were face-to-face, so close that they could feel each other's breath on their skin, there was no mistaking Cornelius Fillmore for who he was. Though his eyes were a different colour, his face marred by the ridged and puckered scar, he was still Fillmore. Anza stared, as the boy he had trusted countless times to watch his back, stared out at him from beneath a criminal's mask.

Speechless, Anza let his grip go slack and Fillmore chose that moment to wrench himself from Joseph's grasp. As the boy made to grab him once again, Fillmore drew his arm back and punched him, forcing Anza to double over as the blow hit him in the solar plexus. Pushing Anza to the floor, Fillmore made his escape, trying to erase the mingled look of contempt and anger he had seen on Anza's face.

**A/N: Before anyone says anything, let me say it for you ... I suck! I am severely unhappy with how this story is panning out - to me it seems forced, lacks cohesion and seems to be drifting further and further from the world built in De Oppresso Liber (to which this story is a sequal). I need serious critical analysis on this piece. I added this chapter, for all it is dreadful, because after a million re-drafts with no improvement I thought I had better let people at least see an update even if it is dreadful. Please give me feedback - I think I've murdered my story :S**

**p.s. apologies that this chapter is shorter than its predecessors and not reflective of the time taken to update.**


	5. Sekhmet

**Fillmore!**

**Today's Episode: Of Myths and Legends**

**Act 5: Sekhmet**

_Mark Twain once wrote, "Of all the animals, man is the only one that is cruel. He is the only one that inflicts pain for the pleasure of doing it."_

* * *

Joseph Anza stormed into Safety Patrol Head Quarters, scattering junior officers and startling Karen Tehama into dropping the files she was holding. He glanced her way, and the young CSI stiffened at the rage she saw in his gaze. An angry Joseph Anza was a terrible sight. His eyes burned into hers for the space of a heartbeat before he looked away and marched into Vallejo's office.

As Anza threw himself through the door of the Junior Commissioners office, his senses vaguely registered that there were other people in the room but he paid the thought no mind. Standing in front of Vallejo's desk, fists planted firmly on the brightly polished wood, Anza gave his anger free reign.

"Fillmore is Kapua." The words came out in a hiss, squeezed from between teeth clenched so tightly, his jaw ached. Joseph's arms were vibrating with tension and the placid, startled look Vallejo gave him only served to further his anger. "Are you not listening to me?" he demanded, voice rising with every word. "Cornelius Fillmore is Kapua Tutuola. You're favourite officer – our _best_ officer – is a criminal."

Vallejo just blinked slowly, and Anza couldn't take it anymore. Why? Why wasn't Vallajo as angry as he was about this? Why wasn't the Junior Commissioner as horrified as betrayed as Anza was? Couldn't the older boy see that the Safety Patrol was all Anza had and that the guy, who in a way qualified as Anza's best friend, had just betrayed all that?

Anza slammed a fist onto Vallejo's desk, glaring at boy seated behind it. He wanted to throw something, hit something – anything to alleviate the rage.

"Fillmore is Kapua!" He yelled again, voice breaking, slumping tiredly into a chair.

"I know." Vallejo said. Just two words: I know. Anza's head snapped up and he stared, unable to believe what he was hearing.

"What?" he mouthed, "But how?"

"It was an assignment Anza." A voice said from the corner. "We were undercover." Anza's eyes grew wide and his neck cricked as he looked quickly over his shoulder. There in the far corner, stood Fillmore and Third. Their disguises lay in bags at their feet, spilling out onto the floor, Ingrid's honey blonde wig falling to the floor in waves.

Vallejo cleared his throat, and Anza's attention was once again drawn to the junior commissioner. "Fillmore and Third have been working to try and bring down a gang that has established themselves here at X. Their job was to set up a rival gang, draw the real criminals out and then contact the Safety Patrol when it was time to bring the crime gang in. We would have told everyone about the operation then but it has gone on far longer than we ever imagined. Samael and Los Duendos have eluded concrete detection time and time again – we know they're dangerous but we don't know who they are. The only way was to try and draw Samael – and subsequently his followers - out into the open. Folsom gave orders for no one to know about the assignment. We had to build a rep for Isis and Kapua and if any of the Safety Patrol had known you wouldn't have tried so hard to catch them, or something would have been let slip. We couldn't take the chance. Unfortunately, due to today's little stunt, we're going to have to change our plans."

Anza winced at the displeasure in the Junior Commissioner's voice. He had simply been doing his job – how was he to have known he was undermining a covert assignment? Irritation quickly overwhelemed the self-pity. "We would have done our jobs Vallejo. Even if this entire force had known about the op., none of us would have slipped up. We were trained to do our jobs – Folsom could have trusted us to do that at least." Vallejo frowned at the bitterness in Anza's tone, but it was Fillmore who attracted Joseph's true venom.

"Man, we were just doing what we were told." Fillmore said moving into the centre of the room.

Anza looked up at him, glaring. Fillmore's hands were shoved lightly into his pockets and his entire stance said he thought Joseph was over-reacting. Maybe he was, but at that point Joseph was beyond caring. With a snarl he pushed to his feet, knocking over the plastic chair he had been sitting on.

He couldn't have said why he was so angry, only that Folsom's tactics irked him. he was a good officer, they all were, and yet Folsom acted as though Ingrid and Fillmore were the only ones on the force. She had ignored all evidence of their training and their abilities; commanding they be kept in the dark on such a large operation. What really bothered him though, was that Vallejo had not defended them. Did the Junior Commissioner have that little faith in his own Patrol?

Focusing his attention on the African-American patroller Anza took two steps forward. "And since when do you do _anything _that Folsom tells you, Cornelius?" he sneered, lip curling in distaste as he eyed the other Patroller. "You're not Third, always obeying order, following your commanders around like a good little –" he knew before he even managed to form the next word that he had gone too far. He had a brief glimpse of Ingrid's hurt and confused face, of Vallejo pushing to his feet before Fillmore's fist slammed into his jaw.

Anza gasped and doubled over, one had clapped to his jaw. Seeing the tension vibrating down the other boy's arm, Joseph knew Fillmore had been holding back and was eternally grateful. He straightened and instinctively backed away upon meeting Fillmore's gaze.

A movement, and his gaze was drawn to where Vallejo now stood at the side of his desk, a look of contempt – so unfamiliar on the Junior Commissioner's face – plain for all to see. His gaze flickered between two boys and his scowl deepened.

"Fillmore," he barked, "Sit down. I'll deal with you in a moment." His attention shifted, and Anza paused, holding his breath whilst he waited. Vallejo opened his mouth, seemed to think better of what he was going to say, and sighed. "Get out. Go home." He commanded, gesturing angrily to the door. "Don't show you're face around here again until I tell you to." Anza hesitated for the briefest of moments, saw the vein in Vallejo's temple begin to throb – not a good sign in one so young – and fled.

He crossed HQ in long, quick strides; head down, trying to ignore the incredulous stares he was receiving. Now doubt the entire room had heard everything he had yelled in Vallejo's office, including his slander on Third. With a wince Anza hastily exited Head Quarters, quickly chose between right and left and set off.

He hadn't made it more than a hundred yards, before the quick patter of feet signalled Tehama's arrival. Joseph idly wondered what it meant that he could distinguish her footfalls from every other member of the student body's. He turned to face her, inwardly cringing as she met his gaze with cool, calm eyes. Anza experience a moment of excruciating horror, where he thought Karen was simply going to shake her head at him and turn away, but instead her fingers traced lightly over slight swelling in his lip – gently examining the extent of the damage.

Without a word, she grabbed his wrist and led him down the hall.

* * *

Minutes later, Anza was slumped down on the floor, resting his back against the overly large freezer that dominated one wall of the kitchens. Karen was kneeling beside him, two fingers tipping his head back whilst she pressed an ice-pack to the wonderful bruise that was beginning to blossom along his chin.

He hissed slightly as the cold sent a sharp shooting pain, followed by a dull ache, through his jaw and was rewarded with a muttered, "hold still." Tehama made him replace her hand with his own and sat back, gently lowering herself to the floor so that she sat opposite him.

There was a moment's silence, before his partner spoke. "I heard what you said about Ingrid." Karen's voice was utterly neutral, and Anza felt his throat constrict. He would have welcomed her yelling at him – telling him what a idiot he was, how rude he had been – but having her treat him as a superior hurt. Karen Tehama was drawing a line in the sand, filling it with cement, and building a wall. Soon the wall would be insurmountable and Anza would have lost his chance. He didn't want to lose his chance.

Blinking slowly, Anza let his gaze travel over Tehama's face. He could see barriers dropping down behind her eyes, preventing him from seeing what she really felt and he hated it. He wanted to desperately to explore this … _thing_ … that existed between him and Karen. This half-formed, half-broken friendship that had the potential to be something more.

They stared at each other for a handful of moments, before Karen sighed and levered herself to her feet. She stood, paused as though she would say something, but in the end, just walked away. Anza watched her go, and felt something snap inside.

* * *

Ingrid gazed silently up at the stars. Orion's belt gleamed high above her, and Ingrid let herself revel in the majesty of the solar system. With a sigh, she lent back, resting her head against Fillmore's shoulder, prompting him to drop a kiss to her forehead. She smiled and his arms settled more firmly around her waist.

The pair were sat, wrapped in blankets and warm clothes, on the crest of the hill, that lay at to the east side of the lake, in the park. They'd come here many times before, either alone, or with friends – it was a place of happy memories. Tilting her head back, Ingrid caught the slight frown the creased her boyfriend's features. His gaze was fixed in the moonlit surface of the lake his breath misting in the cold night air. It was really too cold to be out gazing at stars, but the couple had wanted privacy and this afforded them that.

"Cornelius?" Ingrid asked, her voice a soft murmur in the darkness. She shifted, pulling herself upright as she looked at Fillmore in concern. His dark eyes met hers and white teeth flashed in a quick smile.

"It's nothing Ingrid." He said, trying his best to look reassuring. The look he was gifted with in response informed him that he had done a very poor job. His girlfriend huffed softly - a slightly petulant gesture that he found rather endearing. He smirked, and placed a quick kiss against Ingrid's lips, feeling her grin in spite of herself.

The raven-haired genius delivered a glare that would have been much more convincing if she hadn't been smiling, and extricated herself fully from her boyfriend's arms.

Fillmore raised an eyebrow in question, his mind registering that it was significantly colder without Ingrid sitting in his lap. His second eyebrow rose to join the first when Ingrid knelt in front of him and wrapped her hands around his.

"Fillmore," she said, and Fillmore smirked at the familiar tone, "I know you, and I know it's not nothing. Spill." Watching worry and weariness chase themselves across her partner's eyes, Ingrid chewed her lip thoughtfully. She wondered how much of his mood was a result of the ass-chewing Vallejo had gifted him with earlier that afternoon, and how much of it was due to the bust up with Anza.

Fillmore frowned and turned his head away. "It's nothing Ingrid, a'ight?" When Ingrid didn't say anything, he turned back to be greeted with a calm stare and a raised eyebrow. Sighing, Fillmore closed his eyes and let his head drop down to the crook of Ingrid's neck. They stayed like that for a few moments, before Fillmore straightened and once again fixed his eyes on the glassy lake.

"Anza's never been that angry before."

"Fillmore." The young detective blinked, and wondered if he should inform his girlfriend just how like his mother she sounded in that instant. He sighed and let his head drop down to the crook of Ingrid's neck.

"Just drop it Ingrid, please?" he asked softly, "Just for now, a'ight?"

Silently his girlfriend nodded, and they went back to watching the stars.

* * *

The next morning dawned cold and grey. Ingrid opened her eyes staring blearily at her window. A small sliver of light peaked out from the gap in the curtains and as always Ingrid rolled out of bed to adjust it.

Padding over to the window, Ingrid threw the curtains open wide and barely managed to stifle her scream.

* * *

Across town, Cornelius Fillmore, smothered a yawn as he stumbled downstairs to collect the mail. It was his turn to fish it out of the snow and he scowled at the thought of having to brave the cold this early in the morning.

Opening in the door, he looked down and retched.

* * *

Ingrid waited silently, one hand pressed over her mouth, to make sure her half-scream hadn't woken any one else in the house. When all she heard was silence Ingrid turned back the grotesque scene outside her window.

There, tied to a branch of the tree that grew just before her window was a mass of fur and meat than Ingrid could not identify as any particular animal. Pinned to the macabre display was a white card wrapped in plastic to protect it from the mess. Opening the window, Ingrid reached out with shaking fingers and plucked the note from its horrific grave. Gingerly unwrapping the plastic, Ingrid unfolded the note it held.

_

* * *

_

Anza's not the only one who knows who you are.

Fillmore stared at the words in shock. His parents were currently dealing with the gruesome present left on their front door step whilst Cornelius stood in the kitchen reading the note he had snatched from the remains before his parents saw.

Hearing footsteps, Fillmore hurriedly shoved the paper into the pocket of the sweat pants he was wearing, moments before his father walked into the room. Fillmore raised the trademark family eyebrow and his father sighed heavily.

"It looks like someone's sick idea of a joke," Karim said, sitting down at the kitchen table. "At least they put the poor creature out of its misery. They tortured it, from the looks of things."

"Dawg," Fillmore said. His father nodded, before deciding a change of subject was in order.

"You'd better go and get ready for school," Karim said, "You don't want to be late." Fillmore nodded, giving his father a distracted smile before climbing the stairs. Karim watched him go, wondering just how affected his son was by the sight of the tortured animal.

* * *

Vallejo took a big gulp of cocoa and cursed whoever Samael was and the day he was born. His two best officer's sat before him, both clearly on edge and both a little paler than usual. On his desk were two identical notes. He looked up to see Ingrid eyeing his mug with a distinctly nauseous look. She gulped visibly, and seemed to forcibly calm herself down. Vallejo supposed this was one of the times when an photographic memory was less of a blessing than a curse. His gaze slipped to Fillmore, who he saw was watching his partner with a look of concern. He had still been angry with the young man for punching his co-worker the other day, but that anger had melted into horror at what both he and Ingrid had described.

Watching them now, the Junior Commissioner wondered, not for the first time, how much of Isis and Kapua was real and how much was an act. Frank Bishop had come to his house, wielding a taped interrogation and had spent the good part of an hour dissecting the investigative pair's behaviour. Looking at the two people before him now, Vallejo realised that what Frank saw wasn't a one-time deal.

When the two had walked in, Fillmore's hand had been resting on the small of Ingrid's back. As they took their seats, they had unconsciously moved them closer to one another. Now, as they saw facing him, they were both angled slightly toward the other – diagonally facing, rather than parallel, to each other. He had to give them credit though – if he hadn't begun to compare them to Isis and Kapua he never would have noticed the change in behaviour, would never have had to have Frank confirm it for him. Closing his eyes momentarily, Vallejo decided that there were some things he simply would not see. Ignorance was bliss, after all.

Straightening, Vallejo addressed his officers. "I don't like this." He told them. "The two of you are now at personal risk. I'm pulling you off the case."

His words were met with outcry.

"What?" Fillmore demanded, just as Ingrid exclaimed, "You can't do that." The pair exchanged a quick glance, and Fillmore started talking.

"Just give us a couple more weeks Vallejo, if we haven't cracked it by then – well it's your call – but don't risk ruining everything because of a sick practical joke."

Vallejo raised a hand. "This isn't just about those animals Fillmore. Somehow Los Duendos found out you two are The Tricksters, which means we've got a leak in the Safety Patrol. And as much as I hate to say it, one name does spring to mind."

Fillmore stared and Ingrid gasped at him. "Oh come on Vallejo, you don't honestly think Anza sold us out do you?"

Eyeing the twin notes on his desk, Vallejo sighed. "Honestly Third, I don't know what to believe."

* * *

Samael sat, wrapped in shadows, a satisfied smirk gracing his features. In front of him lounged the section commanders of Los Duendos, their attention focused, just as his was, on the projected images glowing against the wall. Two snapshots, taken in the hallways, positioned side by side. Tilting his head Samael admired the picture that they made. One boy, one girl, duel identities. It held a certain … poetry.

He made a gesture and the projector faded to darkness, removing all sources of light from the room. Beside him, the boy he called Cassius rolled his head languidly, to the side, and raised an eyebrow. The action was barely discernable, but Samael's night vision was excellent. Samael tapped sharply against the side of his chair and Cassius dismissed the rest of the commanders.

The pair sat in silence for a moment, both revelling in the darkness. Samael wishing he could wrap himself in it like a blanket – a protection against the cruelty of the world. It was ironic really how the very cruelty he had once despised had worked its way into his bones. He had listened to Cassius' report as to how unnerved both Fillmore and Third, _or Isis and Kapua_ he thought, had seemed during this day. He knew the gifts Los Duendos had left them were unsettling – they were designed to be. He had created them personally.

Eventually, Cassius spoke. "Are they scared enough, do you think?" he drawled, slouching back down in his chair, legs kicked out in front of him.

Samael stared at the place where the images had been displayed. "No." he hissed to the darkness. "I want them terrified."

* * *

**A/N: First of all, I believe I should issue an apology for the rant that occured at the end of the last chapter (which for some reason won't let me remove). Thank you to all those who offered encouragement, advice or a good swift kick up the backside. All were needed and appreciated, so thank you. I hope this chapter works a bit better than the last one, or at least seems less forced. Personally, I'm happier with it. **

**As always reviews are appreciated.**


	6. Persephone

**Fillmore!**

**Today's Episode: Of Myths and Legends**

**Act 6: Persephone**

The ultimate choice for a man, in as much as he is driven to transcend himself, is to create or to destroy, to love or to hate."

- Erich Fromm

* * *

Anza leant against the rail of the bridge, watching the water gently swirl and ebb beneath his feet. The weak afternoon sun made obscure and shifting patterns on the surface, patterns that began to fade as the light sank into dusk. Idly, he snapped the twig he held and tossed both halves into the water, watching as they sank momentarily, before bobbing back into existence, only to be washed away by the wind-induced current. He stayed that way, staring at the eddying water until a shadow blocked out the dying rays of the sun.

Curious, Anza glanced over to the reflection rippling in the water, only to scowl when he saw who stood there.

"I heard you got suspended." Fillmore's voice was neutral but Anza thought he detected a hint of guilt in the distorted reflection. Turning, he crossed his arms over his chest and settled his wait against the railings, glaring at the other boy. Fillmore regarded him with cool and empty eyes causing Anza to sneer.

"Did you know you're technically my superior?" Anza demanded bitterly, turning his head to stare at a spot over Cornelius' shoulder. "I've served on this force twice as long as you have – I've served longer than anyone except Vallejo – and yet you're the primary officer on this Patrol. I've done more, given more, and yet you still outrank me." He redirected his gaze towards Fillmore and saw the other boy regarding him carefully.

"You're suspended," Fillmore said slowly, "man, chain-of-command no longer applies." There was a weight to his voice and a change in his tone that signalled to Anza the presence of a deeper meaning to the words.

The young bodyguard straightened, letting his arms fall to his sides. "You mean I could hit you now and there would be no consequences?" he asked, eyebrows rising.

"You could." Fillmore said holding Anza's gaze. "Man there's a lot of things you could do. You're no-one's inferior at the moment," he paused, "and no-one's superior either."

Anza frowned, knowing there was a significance to Fillmore's words but failing to comprehend it. He stared at his shoes in confusion. Was he being insulted? Complimented? What was Cornelius –

Anza jerked his head up, eyes wide and staring. Fillmore smirked, turning his back on the other boy to rest his arms against the opposite railing. "There's a loop-hole to the frat regs." He said. His voice was casual as though he were discussing sports scores or the weather. "Relationships between officers operating within the same Patrol are strictly prohibited. _Except_ when said relationship pre-exists the establishment of a chain of command. At the moment Anza you're not part of the Safety Patrol. You've been relieved of duty; you're not subject to any of the rules that govern the rest of us. You can do whatever you want." Fillmore turned and stared at Joseph with a steady gaze, though neither failed to notice the hint of jealousy that had crept into Fillmore's tone. "Getting going Anza. I have it on good authority that she's at home right now."

Joseph stared at the other boy, his mind racing, wondering how the other patroller knew what he did, or why.

"Does this make us even?" he asked eventually.

Fillmore shook his head and once again turned away. "Man, whether or not we have a score to settle is your call. I didn't even know one existed." He failed to look back around, making the words an obvious dismissal.

Anza nodded jerkily, once, though he knew Fillmore couldn't see, before turning and racing off the bridge. Fillmore listened to him go and watched the water swirl and ebb beneath his feet.

* * *

Samael studied the chessboard before him. In three moves, if all went according to plan, the white queen would be vulnerable to attack. If she could be removed from the board, the king would be left undefended – check mate. Of course playing against one's self was not an accurate representation of events. In reality one could never be certain how an opponent would move. Samael was almost certain that he had accounted for every possible eventuality. But still, there was that chance. After all, the human element introduced a random component to any equation.

Sighing, he sat back tapping one long pale finger against his chin as he eyed the black pieces thoughtfully. Just as the bishops and knights on the board were, his commanders were poised for attack – even the pawns were secure in their positions – but which to move first? The white queen was down a defender – one bishop had been removed from play – but that still left three others to consider. The second bishop was close to her side, limited in movement, and wary, but devoted all the same. Beside the king stood a knight waiting in the wings, but ready to jump to his defence if necessary.

And then there was the second knight, lurking in the shadows on the other side of the board - a piece that had been neglected for much of the game, but one with potential. She guarded the queen's most vulnerable side – a last line of defence.

Lazily, Samael reached out and plucked the white queen from the board. Twisting the carved piece between his fingers, he smiled at the thin crack that ran down the length of painted wood - a delicate blemish, mostly hidden but significant all the same. If he could only apply enough pressure, the white queen would snap in two. He had Adelie Johnson to thank for that.

* * *

Ingrid hurriedly tucked her hair up underneath Isis' wig as her eyes scoured her makeshift dressing table for the case that held her contact lenses. Spying it under a makeup sponge she quickly snatched it up and popped it open. With expert ease she transformed her eyes from their customary jade-green to a warm hazel. With a final glance in the mirror, Ingrid steeled her nerve and slid out of the storage room.

A message had come through the Trickster's underground saying that Augie wanted to talk to her but with the recent turn of events Ingrid was cautious. She had no idea who knew about her true identity and who did not, and she couldn't be certain this wasn't a subversive attack from Los Duendos. As she hurried down the hallways of X Middle School, she couldn't help but cast nervous glances over her shoulder. There had been no time to tell Fillmore of her plans; he had left moments before the message had come through and it would have taken too long to catch up with him. Ingrid spared a moment's regret for the inconvenience of timing before shaking all thoughts of her partner from her head. Sheltering behind a row of lockers and the girl-genius focused her attention on the place where she was supposed to me Augie.

The junction between Hallway B and the Arts corridor was empty – suspiciously so. At this time of day there should have at least been a smattering of students at their lockers but there was no one, only a lone trolley of precariously balanced lockers left haphazardly parked in the middle of the hallway.

The locker trolley sent alarm bells ringing in her head. Stumpy would never have left it parked in such an awkward place, let alone stacked the lockers on top of one another in such a way. The little voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like Ariella told her to turn around and go back the way she had come, but she knew she could not do that. If Augie really did have news for her, she needed to hear it. Los Duendos already had one over on them and the Safety Patrol now needed anything that would even the score.

Warily, Ingrid made her way toward the water fountain nestled against the farthest wall. Keeping one eye on the lockers, she started when she heard a crash echo down the hallway behind her. Whipping around, Ingrid saw one of classroom doors swinging wildly.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Ingrid nearly didn't register the rush off wind across her shoulder. The shock of cool air was all the warning she received, before the row of lockers tumbled off the trolley towards her. With a gasp Ingrid threw herself onto the floor, wrapping her arms across her head in a desperate attempt to protect herself, as metal hit floor with a resounding clang. Trembling, Ingrid waited for the rolling echo of battered metal to fade before she raised her head from underneath her arms.

The hallway was deathly silent; her own blood sounding thunderously loud in her ears and she could almost taste the pulse in her throat. Adrenaline coursed through Ingrid's system, spurred on by shock and fear. On either side, the hem of her top had been caught beneath the corner of a fallen locker; scant millimetres separated metal from skin.

Turning her head, Ingrid felt her stomach heave. The side of the locker she was facing, was branded with a grinning devil's head.

* * *

Cassius watched as the Safety Patroller, known to the criminal underworld as Isis Nakuta, struggled to free her prone form from the fallen lockers. Smirking, he sauntered forward, stopping when he saw her freeze as his shoes entered her field of vision.

Slowly, so slowly, as though the tension in her shoulders was stalling any form of rapid movement, Isis tilted her head up to see his face. Hazel eyes watched him with a tinge of fear, even as her face fell into a perfect mask of indifferent neutrality.

Crouching down, Cassius hooked two fingers under his prisoners chin. To his surprise, the girl refused to jerk away instead meeting his gaze with a steady glare.

"Well?" she asked. Cassius was impressed despite herself. He could see the fear in her eyes, could feel the fine tremble running through her frame but her voice was perfectly even. The girl was certainly brave. Running his fingers casually over her jaw, Cassius delighted in the disgusted shudder she tried to suppress.

"You really are an exquisite creature." Cassius stated softly before pinning his captive with a cold stare. "But your looks will not save you. This was a warning; we will not be as accommodating next time around." His voice was flooded with icy menace, but Ingrid was unmoved by a threat she had heard a thousand times from the mouth of every crook.

Arching one fine eyebrow, she asked, "Is this the part where I ask what you want from us?"

Cassius chuckled, a rich deep sound, dark eyes sparkling with mirth in his tanned face. "What we want?" he laughed. "No. I'm not going to tell you that. That would mean we had to stop the game, and we're only beginning. Just think. A million more of these accidents could occur and you wouldn't be able to do anything about it. The moment you started investigating word would leak out that the Safety Patrol's two best officers are actually thieves and the Safety Patrol would be left ruined. No reputation, no allies – adrift in a sea swarming with criminals. You wouldn't want that now, would you?"

Ingrid glared. "Folsom would—"

"Folsom is not this school." Cassius growled, interrupting her. His face had twisted into a mask of aggression and anger. He glared, a snarl carving his lips and Ingrid fought urge to shrink from his gaze. His fingers had once again clamped down on her chin and the girl felt the skin beginning to bruise beneath the pressure.

Leaning in Cassius hissed his anger into Ingrid's ear. "By the end of this Folsom will be as ruined as the Safety Patrol. She will have nothing left, and neither will you."

With a jerk, Cassius let go of Ingrid chin and abruptly stood. Spinning on his heel he stalked down the hall leaving a startled and bewildered Ingrid behind him.

* * *

Anza's feet pounded on the frosty ground as he raced from the park towards Tehama's house. Speeches, declarations, and half-baked ideas chased themselves around his mind as he ran.

Before he even knew it he was standing in front of Tehama's house, staring at the painted wood of the front door. Without even thinking he raised a fist and knocked rapidly on the wood. It was only after his hand had stopped moving that he thought maybe he should have waited until he had decided what he would say.

The door opened and all logical thought fled Anza's head. Tehama stood there, hair loose and falling gently around her face, with one eyebrow raised in delicate question.

"Yes?" The greeting was cool, civil but not welcoming but frankly Anza didn't care. Her voice lit something within him – his heart felt lighter and the black mood that had descended upon him since his suspension suddenly lifted.

He stood there, quite silent, simply staring and Tehama's frosty demeanour quickly melted to one of concern.

"Joseph?" He could tell by the look on her face that she hadn't meant to address him by his given name but she had and he felt his heart soar.

Before he realised what he was doing, he had stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her.

The kiss lasted for all of five seconds before Karen yanked her head away and stared. Anza held her gaze trying to put everything he felt into that one look.

When a hint of worry edged its way onto Tehama's features, he whispered, "I don't outrank you anymore." and was rewarded with a heart-stopping smile.

The two stood there, grinning at each other, as the sun finally dropped behind the horizon. They both knew that this fledgling relationship would take work, that they might crash and burn, but at the moment neither of them cared.

* * *

Ingrid kept her head bowed as she hurried home. Her hands were shoved deep inside her pockets and the collar of her jacket was pulled up around her ears, in a desperate attempt to ward off the cold – just as her mind tried to ward off the guilt she felt at not letting Fillmore know about the attack. She had sat at her desk for nearly an hour after shedding her Isis persona, long after every one else had gone home, arguing with herself as to whether or not to call him. In the end, against her natural instincts, she had refrained from doing so, telling herself that she simply did not want him to worry and that as a Safety Patroller she should be independent – not running to her partner after every run in with a crook.

Hunching her shoulders for warmth, Ingrid forcibly evicted all thoughts of the matter from her mind, concentrating instead on the path she was walking. Shadows pooled along the ground and the young detective kept a wary eye on the areas untouched by the light of the streetlamps. Her eyes established a nervous dance – gaze flicking from one patch of shadow to the next, muscles bunched in preparation to run if need be.

Last year she had revelled in the darkness winter brings – enjoy the quiet mystery that lay in a world robed in shadow and frost. This year however, all she could think about was what might be hiding in that darkness, and each night she fought the urge to check under the bed for monsters.

A twig snapped behind her and she shrieked, whirling around, her traitorous body refusing her mind's order to run without bothering to look behind. Wide green eyes, met the pale yellow gaze of a large calico cat. Startled by the sudden movement the cat hissed at her, tale bushing in fright. When Ingrid didn't move it settled down and began to elegantly wash a front paw.

The light tinkling of the bell on its collar broke the spell of fear that had taken hold of Ingrid. Mentally berating herself for her weakness, Ingrid spun around and raced home, tears she didn't even know she was shedding drying in frozen tracks on her cheeks.

* * *

"Good evening Mrs Fillmore, could I speak to Cornelius please?"

With a clatter, Fillmore let his fork drop to his plate, as the voice of Ariella Third drifted into the dining room. Across from him, his father raised his eyebrows in question. Fillmore shook his head blankly and turned to the doorway where his mother stood beside Ingrid's elder sister. Still rapidly trying to assess the situation, Fillmore rose from his seat, nodding in silent acquiescence to his mother's suggestion that he and Ariella speak in the living room.

As he watched Ariella seat herself on the sofa, Fillmore analysed her with the trained eye of a detective. His first thought, upon hearing Ariella's voice, had been that something had happened to Ingrid but on seeing her now, he knew that couldn't be the case. Though it was clear Ariella _was_ worried about something, she was still composed enough to assure him that the matter was not dire.

He sat down slowly on the chair opposite as the silence stretched to one tinged with awkwardness. Though he had no problem talking with her younger sister, Fillmore was unsure what to say to Ariella. As the silence descended into the realms of decidedly awkward, Ariella cleared her throat.

"I'm here about Ingrid." She said. Fillmore stiffened, wondering if his initial instincts had been wrong and something had happened to Ingrid.

"What about her?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice even.

Ariella didn't answer right away. She regarded him for a moment, green eyes so like her sisters, fixed upon his face.

"She's been having nightmares." Ariella said at last, gaze falling to where her hands lay twisted in her lap. "I've tried talking to her but –" she paused, shaking her head as though to clear it of unwanted thoughts. "I hear her tossing and turning all night – she _whimpers _as though she's terrified and there's nothing I can do to help."

Her voice was tight with emotion, and Fillmore could see the worry in Ariella's eyes. "I know something happened a few months ago. Something she won't tell me about. It's when the nightmares started – when she began constantly looking over her shoulder and jumping at the shadows. I'm not asking to know what happened, not if she's not ready to tell me. But will you talk to her – please?"

Fillmore nodded without a second thought. As he showed Ariella to the door, his mind was humming – why hadn't Ingrid said anything to him?

He gave Ariella a distracted wave before turning and climbing up the stairs to his room, his dinner forgotten.

* * *

**A/N:** Apologies for the tremendously long time it took me to update - hopefully now that term's ended I'll get more writing done, though I'm on hiatus until the 10th July. As always **criticisms and reviews **are appreciated. Thank you.


	7. Deimus

**Fillmore!**

**Today's Episode: Of Myths and Legends**

**Act 7: Deimus**

Philosopher Kahlil Gibran wrote "Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars."

* * *

The week rolled by and in those seven days, Los Duendos achieved what they had refrained from doing in the past months. Using all the resources available to them, Samael and his followers brought a reign of terror down upon the halls of X Middle School. Students of all ages were terrified to venture into the halls. Money exchanged hands faster than words could be said as kids bargained, bought and bribed for protection from anyone in a position to offer it.

The nurse was swamped with students – male and female alike – limping to her office sporting bruises and cuts, sometimes still shaking with fear from their assault. Folsom was lviid and at her whit's end – alternately fielding calls from concerned or irate parents and berating the Safety Patrol for their ineptness.

The foundation Isis and Kapua had built initially swelled with an influx of students seeking refuge from Los Duendos. But even with the help of a now enlightened Safety Patrol, the Crime Duo were hard pushed to provide the protection their people so desperately needed. Lack of resources and the student's fear of being targeted for supporting the Tricksters' meant that the wealth of followers both Ingrid and Fillmore relied upon to undermine Los Duendos' operations, crumbled.

It looked as though the Tricksters were about to lose the war. And it was clear for all to see, that without two Crime Lords to split the balance of power, the Safety Patrol would be facing an enemy far stronger than they were.

And yet despite all this, the real worry for the Senior Patrollers, was Ingrid.

* * *

Swearing, Ingrid tried to forcefully stop her hand from trembling as she reached for her locker. Her fingers touched the metal and she pried the door open only to slam it shut again with a start as a cough sounded from behind her. Whirling, both hands raised to fight off an attacker, Ingrid came face to face with a rather shocked six former, who, with chin trembling, hurried away down the hall.

With a sigh, Ingrid turned back to her locker; acutely aware that the number of people in the hallway was lessening, and that very soon every student would be in lessons. Hurriedly, the raven-haired genius grabbed her books and slammed her locker shut, not even bothering to put the books in her bag for fear of being caught in the hallways alone.

Books clutched tightly to her chest, Ingrid flew down the corridor towards her classroom, as she rounded the corner her ears heard the sound of crying and a voice calling for help.

Halting, Ingrid glanced into the classroom to her left. The door was open and she could clearly see a girl, a seventh grader from the textbook clutched in one hand, cowering away from a brutish looking boy. Seeing the girl's eyes dart to the right, the boy turned his head, grinning when he saw the Orange sash Ingrid wore. Ingrid gasped when she saw his face. Same cruel, dark eyes, same tanned face. With a malicious smirk, he raised one hand in a mock salute.

"Samael says hello." He told her, his voice as cruelly rich as it was when she was pinned beneath the fallen lockers. The girl reached out a hand – a silent plea for help – but Ingrid shook her head, looking away from the scene. With a choked sob, Ingrid Third did what she had always sworn never to do. She ran.

* * *

Fillmore flung his satchel down onto his desk at HQ and glanced over at Ingrid's desk with a frown. His partner had not shown for class earlier and his inquiries with the nurse and at Folsom's office had produce nothing but blank stares and negative responses. Now, it transpired, that she had not been seen either. Worried, Fillmore left his bag where it sat and headed for the door, brushing off a question from a younger patroller with a shake of his head. He was just about to leave when the door burst open and a girl, pale blonde hair streaming behind her, burst into the room. He vaguely recognised her as a girl from his history class and was surprised not only to see venom in her eyes but also to see it directed at him. His eyes quickly took in her state of disarray and the handprint bruise beginning to form on her wrist.

"You're partner's _disgusting_." She hissed at him, poison and resentment dripping from every word. "She saw what that boy was doing and she just left me!"

"What boy? What was he doing?" The question came from Karen, now quickly approaching from the side. Fillmore was glad for the help as the slur against Third had made him want to yell at the girl rather than take her statement.

The blonde turned to Karen, fury still evident in her features but beginning to give way to shock and fear. "One of Los Duendos," she said her voice shaking, "he cornered me a classroom, told me to spread the word that people should do as Los Duendos say. He grabbed me, I thought he was going to hit me, but she was passing and she saw us. He stopped, spoke to her, I thought she was going to help me – she's a Safety Patroller – but she just shook her head and me and ran. She left me there." by this time the girl was sobbing, collapsed into Tehama's arms as she shook with fear.

"Which Safety Patroller?" Tehama asked, gently.

The girl sniffed and straightened, her eyes once again finding Fillmore's. "Ingrid Third."

* * *

Lost in thought, Cornelius traversed the school hallways on instinct, letting his knowledge of Third lead him to the places she would most likely be. The blonde's words echoed viciously in his head – taunting him. He told himself that the girl was wrong – that she'd made a mistake – that the Ingrid hadn't left a victim to fend for herself. But in his heart he knew that recently Ingrid had changed. As the 'war' with Los Duendos had raged on, his partner had become more and more subdued. The change becoming even more noticeable to him after Ariella conveyed her concern to him. He stubbornly ignored the voice, which wondered if Ingrid was still fit for duty, telling himself that his girlfriend would have confided in him if anything had been affecting her mentally.

His feet led him out of the school and across its grounds. A thin rain was falling, growing stronger as it fell, slowly saturating everything it touched. Paying the wet no mind, Fillmore continued his journey to the school's sentential orchard. His steps followed a familiar route the clearing he and Ingrid had come to think of as theirs. Glancing up, he was only half-surprised to see his partner sitting in a dejected heap on the floor. Moving forward, Fillmore's foot snapped a fallen twig.

At once, Ingrid was on her feet, hair flying in her face as she gazed wildly around her. Upon seeing Fillmore she looked prepared to bolt, but hesitated as her mind warned her that doing so now would produce even more questions from her partner. Instead, she stood there, poised like a startled doe, nervous energy vibrating along her skin. Cautiously, Fillmore edged towards her, gently reaching out his arms to embrace her. When she didn't try to get away, the young detective drew the girl who was both friend, partner and so much more. Ingrid remained frozen for a moment before she gave up all pretence of stoicism and wept into his shirt. Her tears mingled with the rain so as to be barely noticeable.

Cornelius held Ingrid as she cried, his worry mounting with every passing breath. Never before has he seen the young genius reduced to tears and he fretted silently over what could have driven her to seek solace alone.

Eventually, Third's tears lessened then dried and with a ragged breath she gently extradited herself Fillmore's hold. She gave her boyfriend a watery smile, before flopping gracelessly onto the soggy ground below. Fillmore followed suit, not caring that the water soaked through the seat of his jeans. His only concern was Ingrid.

Wrapping one of her hands in his own, Fillmore marvelled at how fragile she seemed. Even now, after she had ceased to cry, she was trembling. He squeezed her hand as an invitation to start talking.

Hesitantly, eyes bright with tears and the control she had striven for ever since her mother's death slowly crumbling away Ingrid began, telling Fillmore everything: from the nightmares that had begun after Johnson attacked her, to the run in with Los Duendos, to the fear Samael's gift had caused her, to being pinned beneath the lockers and how the nightmares had slowly worsened. Last of all she told him how she'd ran.

Listening to it all, Fillmore could not help but feel betrayed.

* * *

Swiftly, footsteps falling lightly on the floors, Samael manoeuvred through the hallways of the M.S.C.C. Keeping his head down he dodged past the cadets who had a right to be there, pulling his down lower so as to hide his face. Though he outwardly presented a visage of cold composure, his mind was in turmoil. He had sworn to himself he would not make this visit until it was all over – until he could bask in his triumph and prove to the fools that ran the cadet the calibre of candidate they had let go.

But the question had eaten away at him, driven him mad with fruitless wondering. Now anger warred with worry, quickly establishing dominance and raging freely. As his anger boiled, his footsteps fell more sharply, ringing out in clear, concise tones. Furious now, he struggled to regain his persona as the cold, calculating and ruthless ruler of the underground. It was a hard battle. He felt young and weak – re-walking these halls reminded him that he had once answered to a chain of command – respected that chain of command.

But his shelter had been stolen from him, and now he needed to create his own shelter, regardless of cost.

Pausing in front of a door, Samael knocked sharply, barely waiting for the muffled 'Come in', before slipping into the room. At her desk, in what had once been Adelie Johnson's office, Bridget O'Conner looked up. As Samael lowered his hood, Bridget drew a breath sharply between her teeth. The young commander pushed roughly to her feet, chair scraping painfully against the floor.

"You should _not_ be here." She hissed at him, lips white with tension. "How did you get past the sentries?"

Samael smiled, a half-quirk of the lips that belied any sense of mirth in the gesture. "You forget, that I too, once was a cadet." He made no move to walk forward, or to leave – keeping Bridget in a state of suspense as she watched for any hint of his intent.

He waited patiently for her to break. His patience was endless, hers was not. "Why are you here." She asked eventually. Her was voice harsh and ringing with disdain.

Inwardly, Samael chuckled.

Though Bridget's words were rough and her expression all but welcoming, her actions attested to far less confidence. It was clear that the Major still did not feel entirely secure of her position in the M.S.C.C. – still did not know who was to be trusted and who would turn traitor at a moment's notice – if she had, she would not have hesitated in yelling for all available cadets to come and apprehend him. After all, he _was_ trespassing.

Bridget seemed to come to the same conclusion he had, for she sank slowly back down into her chair – face drawn and tight with an anxiety as she watched him.

"If you came for an explanation," she told him, "I doubt you'll like the answer." When the boy said nothing she continued. "We expelled all we suspected to have been linked to Johnson's scheme. But we also expelled those who we felt were damaged by this environment."

"And in what way was I _damaged_." Samael hissed, spitting the final word at the girl sitting opposite him.

Meeting his gaze, Bridget spoke calmly. "You were crippled here. You hid your face from prying eyes. We are all young. Such a life is not healthy. I could not let you live, controlled forever by your insecurities."

"_Who were you to decide that for me_?" Samael screamed at her, eyes wild with fury. "_Who were you to take this from me_?" His voice cracked with rage, the tendons in his neck cording with the effort of keeping himself in check "You have no idea what it is like."

Bridget gazed at him softly, and Samael turned away – he did not want her pity.

"Are people really so cruel?" she asked eventually.

"No," Samael told her, "but only because I have assured they never will be."

* * *

Joseph Anza grinned to himself as he settled his arm around Karen's waist, letting her direct them to a rarely visited part of the park's botanical gardens. Though the school boasted gardens of almost equal quality, neither of the pair had wished to have their time disturbed by the gardening club's after school maintenance.

The pair wound their way through the gardens, laughing, joking, and simply taking the time to enjoy each other's company – the first step to mending the bridges that lay between them. Karen turned, tugging of Anza's hand playfully as she tried to lead him towards the bridge that lay in the centre of the park. Consequently, she failed to see the lone figure on the bridge. Anza was no so unaware. He paused for a moment conscience pricking him. He wondered if he should talk to Fillmore, but convinced himself that the other boy wanted to be alone. His time with Karen was too precious to waste. Laughing, he shook his head and directed Tehama towards the miniature maze.

* * *

Fillmore slumped tiredly over the bridge's railings. He understood why Ingrid had been so reluctant to confide in him – pride and fear had combined with a resolve not to let Samael win, to produce a reluctant to acknowledge distress or speak of it to anyone.

However, understanding her actions did not allow him to reconcile them with his feelings of betrayal and guilt. Betrayal – that she had not seen fit to confide in him. Guilt – that he was somehow lacking, and had therefore failed one of the people who mattered most to him.

Exhausted, he took comfort in the fact that at the very least Ingrid was ok. After they had spoke, she had seemed more like the girl he had first been partnered with, than the ghost who had haunted the Safety Patrol these last few days.

Pushing all thoughts of personal turmoil aside, Fillmore focused on Isis and Kapua. He had been mulling the situation all day, and for all he knew Vallejo would balk at the idea, he believed that the only way to settle this once and for all was to call a showdown with Los Duendos. Or, more accurately, with Samael.

He could see no other way of ending this feud, without turning the school into a full fledged war-zone. If he could convince the other Crime Lord to meet him one-on-one – it was possible he stood a chance of ending this. Even if he lost – he would learn the face of his opponent. Faces led to names. A name would equal arrest, and it would be over.

If only he could convince Vallejo.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the inordinantly long time it took to update. Please let me know what you think - the conclusion should be happening within the next few chapters, with an epilogue to follow if needed. As always thank you for reading and apologies for any errors that were missed when this was proof read.  
**


	8. Deino

**Fillmore!**

**Today's Episode: Of Myths and Legends**

**Act 8: Deino**

_Milan Kundera said, "The basis of shame is not some personal mistake of ours, but that this humiliation is seen by everyone," _

_Carl Jung said, "The healthy man does not torture others. Generally, it is the tortured who turn into torturers." _

* * *

Fillmore paced back and forth across Safety Patrol HQ. His right hand engaged in an agitated dance, running over his head, behind his neck, under his chin only to start all over again. His eyes flicked up to the clock and the wall before running over the empty desks and darkened window of Vallejo's office. Most people had gone home hours ago; he was waiting for Ingrid to keep their meeting. She was late. Part of him hoped she wouldn't show.

The door creaked open, and Ingrid's silhouette slipped around the frame. Her hair was slightly mused, and her cheeks were lightly flushed. Fillmore realised she must have run part of the way. Ingrid smiled and apology, and settled into her usual position behind her desk. Fillmore sat rather heavily in his own chair, and gazed thoughtfully at the cans of spray paint arranged there.

The two sat in silence for a few moments, Ingrid taking the time to get her breath back, whilst Fillmore decided on the best way to say what he wanted to say. As the silence stretched, Ingrid seemed to sense something was wrong. She took to watching Fillmore from the corner of her eye as she busied herself with random papers she'd fished from her desk. She had no idea what files she had pulled, nor did she care. It was unlike Fillmore to be so reticent and in truth it made her slightly apprehensive. Eventually, after watching him move to speak only to fail to do so, Ingrid broke the silence.

"Something bothering you?" she asked mildly, putting the file she held down and turning to openly watch her partner.

Fillmore started. He hadn't been aware Third was scrutinising him. Sighing, he shifted until he was facing her. The pair unconsciously leaned towards each other as Fillmore opened his mouth to speak.

"Ingrid, maybe you shouldn't come tonight." He said. Time seemed to stop for the space of a heartbeat before Ingrid pushed herself forcefully away from Cornelius.

"What? Why?" she asked. Her tone was confused, but anger was held at bay by her faith in the strength of their partnership.

Fillmore hesitated, before he continued. "I'm not sure you'll be able to handle the fallout." Ingrid choked and Fillmore realised an instant too late how his words may have sounded to anyone who had not been privy to his own personal dialogue. He lunged forward, grabbing Ingrid's wrist to prevent her moving any further away. Shock, hurt, betrayal, anger and even a flash of revulsion chased themselves across Ingrid's face, before a mask of cold fury settled into place. He caught her gaze, and Ingrid paused, something in his face - perhaps his stricken expression—telling her that there had been a misunderstanding.

"You think I can't handle Los Duendos?" she asked softly, hating herself for the way her voice trembled slightly. Fears which had been niggling at her ever since she had broken down in the clearing threatened to overpower her. What if he thought her weak? What if he worried that a girl so affected by Johnson, who was only a single criminal, wouldn't be able to handle herself against an entire gang.

Fillmore closed his eyes and let his head drop down to his chest, one hand still wrapped around Ingrid wrist. Before speaking, he changed his grip so his fingers were entwined with hers—holding rather than trapping. "I just," he paused, cursing the fact that he wasn't better with words, "I don't want to see you get hurt." internally he grimaced at how trite and overused the words sounded, but he didn't know how else to say it.

Ingrid replied with the customary words. "I can take care of myself Fillmore."

"I know," Cornelius admitted, "but Ingrid, Adelie Johnson attacked you, beat you, and restrained you. You've admitted yourself that you're not as unaffected by that as you initially thought or pretended. We're about to draw down with the people Johnson _trained —_ trained to be just like her—I don't want to see the same thing happen again. What if this time it's worse?"

Ingrid softened, hearing clearly the distress in Fillmore's voice. He hadn't tried to hide it, he wanted her to know just how worried he was for her. "And if I said I would be fine?"

"You can't guarantee you will be," Fillmore said quietly.

"But if I did would you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you." Fillmore shot back, slightly rankled by the question. Ingrid simply raised one graceful eyebrow and extracted her hand from his grip.

"You say that Fillmore, but you doubt my ability to know my own limits."

"You don't know your own limits," Fillmore spat angrily, "that's why you cracked under the pressure yesterday. It's why you jeopardised this case and your own safety by not coming to me. It's why you've been having nightmares for months and its why I don't want you coming with me. How am I supposed to talk down Samael when I'm worried about how my girlfriend's affectively been lying to me?" In the back of his mind a voice was desperately trying to make him stop talking but he wasn't listening.

"So you don't trust me." Ingrid whispered softly. Fillmore caught sight of the hurt on Ingrid's face and his anger erupted. Why did she have the right to be hurt? Who was she to talk about trust when she hadn't trusted him?

"You don't trust me either." he told her. "If you did, you would have come to when the nightmares started becoming a constant thing. You wouldn't have bottled everything up and acted like some damn ice-queen, you would have talked to me. Ingrid, we're dating—relationships are supposed to be built on trust and communication but you're not holding up your end, if they're not then —. " A single tear slipped down Ingrid's cheek, and Fillmore felt his anger drain away in a wash of guilt. Why were they arguing? Why was he yelling at her like this?

"Ingrid, I– "

"I told you why I didn't say anything," Ingrid told him softly, "You know it's because I didn't want to drag you down with me. I had no way of knowing whether or not Samael would try to exploit the situation if he knew you were worried about me. I was your weakness once before Fillmore, I wasn't prepared to be so again."

Making her way to the door, Ingrid spoke over her shoulder. "Issue your challenge if you want to—or wait a day, it wont make much difference. I'll speak to Vallejo in the morning, Anza will accompany you to the show down. Call me if there's anything else you'd like to say." leaving Fillmore wincing at the cold derision in her tone, Ingrid shut the door behind her with a decisive snap

* * *

Tanned skin and dark hair, melded with the shadows as the boy who had begun to haunt Ingrid Third's nightmares traversed, from memory, the tunnels that ran below X Middle School. By passing a ladder he knew led up into the computer lab, he turned left into a medium-sized room which had once been used to store excess computer parts. He knew that he would not find old wiring and disused screens now though, instead this room now held everything needed to make a Crime Lord feel at home.

"Cassius." The boy snarled, wondering not for the first time how it was that Samael always knew when he entered a room, even when he made no noise.

"Sir." He ground out, forcefully biting back his growing frustration. He had thought that being thrown out from the M.S.C.C. would leave him free, but instead he had fallen in with Samael and once again was forced to bow to another's command. Both he and Samael knew that he followed Los Duendos only because he wanted what they could do for him. Though one of the few gang members to have ever seen Samael's face, he knew that his privilege was not born of trust but out of a desire, on Samael's part, to prove to Cassius that his really was the face of the devil.

Cassius trod with care around Samael, but such care did not stop him from resenting the other boy and his arrogance. He especially disliked the connotations of his name. on the one hand it portrayed him as one who would betray the rightful authorities to aid another in a coup d'état, but on the other it labelled him as the one consumed by Lucifer's third head in the ninth circle of hell.

Cassius did not want to be consumed by Samael.

Slowly, he walked further into the room, his eyes alighting on the projector which was once again playing scenes of Isis and Kapua. Samael was watching the display with the appearance of detached disinterest, but Cassius knew that should he see the other boy's eyes, they would be filled with a malicious light. Avoiding his commander's gaze, Cassius settled himself into a vacant chair. The light from the projector gave Samael an almost ghoulish appearance, highlighting the veins that ran just beneath the skin and Cassius suppressed a shudder. His may have been the heart of a criminal, but even he could be unsettled by one who appeared so alien—even if he knew that boy himself was human enough.

"What news have you to report?" Samael demanded harshly, his gaze shifting from the projected images to the chess board arranged before him.

"The Safety Patrol seem to have stalled. Joseph Anza's still suspended, but he seems to have taken up with Karen Tehama. Third's weakening, just as you predicted, but Fillmore's still standing by her. Vallejo -"

"I did not ask for a report on their love lives." Samael snapped, one hand reaching out to snap the projector off—leaving them in darkness. "I want to know their plans, if you cannot tell me that Cassius then-"

The door banged open, preventing Samael from continuing his tirade, and on of Cassius's lieutenants stumbled into the room. "You've got to see this." He said, tripping over chairs to fumble his way towards the two commanders. Folsom just sent it out to all the parents." Samael snarled and hid his face as the boy advanced, still reaching blindly in the near dark—the small amount of light available from the open door doing little to aid his progress. In the end Cassius lost patience and snatched the piece of paper the boy hand been carrying from his hand before dismissing him.

The pair listened as his footsteps disappeared into the distance before Cassius turned his attention to the letter. Reaching a pocket flashlight from his pants he shone the thin beam over the words, his brows drawing together in a frown as he read.

"Folsom's authorising increased security on school grounds. All after school groups are to be conducted in the presence of an adult. No child or group of children is to left unattended at any time. Teachers will patrol hallways when classes are not in session. All children must wear a whistle around their necks so they can call for help if they feel threatened. Any child found to be guilty of bullying another or of belonging to a gang will be expelled." He paused and let the piece of paper flutter to the ground. "Folsom's bringing in the cavalry."

Samael swore and lunged to his feet, prowling the room like a caged tiger.

"This wont necessarily set us back." Cassius's voice permeated his pacing. "We'll just have to make sure that people are far too scared to talk. All we need to do is pick a scapegoat, and a kid likely to go to the Safety Patrol. We let our scapegoat take the fall, then exact revenge on the kid who told. Everyone else will be too scared of fallout to say a damn word after that. We can do as we please."

Samael nodded, jerkily, hands twitching in agiation by his sides. His teeth dug into his lip so hard they almost pierced the skin.

"Of course there's a chance it wont work." Cassius added off-handedly, "it might be that they all just band together and it wont be safe for any of us anymore but-"

"_Get out._" Samael snarled fury rising in his chest. Cassius, startled by his leader's sudden change in attitude, didn't move. Samael picked up a chair and hurled it at him. "Get out. Get out. _Get out_." He screamed. Cassius fled.

Samael collapsed to his knees, shoulders shaking from suppressed sobs. In a fit of sudden anger, he swept out his arm and sent his chess board hurtling across the room. It hit the wall with a sharp smack, and two pieces—the white king and his queen—rebounded to land in his lap. The chess board lay in a mangled ruin, but these two pieces were still whole. All the white pieces were, but the black ones lay broken and scattered across the room. The black kings head rolled towards him, separated from the body.

Shaking, Samael clenched his fists around the pieces, squeezing so hard that nails met skin and drew blood—thin red rivulets running down his wrists to splash against his clothes.

How could this have happened? His plans were supposed to result in a school so fragmented and broken that everyone would be too busy looking over their shoulders to pay attention to him. Instead, all he had succeded in doing was provoking Folsom's anger, focusing the eyes of the school onto himself and his gang. He knew that Folsom's actions would lose Los Duendos a lot of their support. Only the high ranking gang members would stay and risk expulsion when most knew that the gang would be finished before it could exact revenge for their betrayal.

Brought nearly to tears, the boy known as Samael, the boy who had been on the brink of ruling an entire school from the shadows, huddled on the floor feeling exposed. What would happen to him, once order was returned? Folsom would wish to make an example of him, he was sure. He would be brought before the school for all to see—reviled and ostracised. Everyone would know his face. The thought brought bile rising in his throat as panic tightened his chest. He choked, finding it hard to breath. His mind fogged—he couldn't think clearly. He stopped, gasped, and forced himself to breath. He had to act, had to move, had to think.

Folsom wanted to expose him, turn him into a monster—but what if he beat her to it? It he was going to be a monster it would be on his terms—not someone else's. Yes, yes. That's what he'd do. He'd make sure everyone in this school feared him, before he was exposed. He was done hiding in shadows. He'd make them scream at the sight of his face—they wouldn't have a chance to jeer. He'd be a monster on his own terms.

* * *

Anza lengthened his stride, as he hiked up free-fall hill. He had know idea why he'd been asked to go there, only that Vallejo had called him early in the morning and told him to meet Fillmore on the hill before school started. Anza wondered if the fact that the meeting was held out of the office meant that he wasn't being reinstated to the Safety Patrol.

Fillmore was stood at the top of the hill, his back turned, and his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Anza cleared his throat, and Fillmore turned sharply, relaxing when he saw who stood there. He nodded, and Anza nodded back, before both fell into an awkward silence.

"I'm sorry," Anza blurted out just as Fillmore said, "Third convinced Vallejo to let you come back."

The two paused, each taking the time to digest the others statement before they once again exchanged nods and started to talk business.

"I need you to back me up when I issue my challenge to Samael. You might have heard what Folsom has planned for the school, but it's not going to be enough. The only way we're going to put a face to the name is if he meets us one on one." Fillmore said.

"Will that work?" Anza queried. "Karen said that you and Third got notes telling you that Los Duendos knew who you were. Wont they get that it's a trap?"

Fillmore nodded, but a frown was creasing his features. "Were you the one who told Los Duendos?" he asked solemnly. "Third says it wasn't you, but I got to know man."

Anza sighed, he'd been expecting this. "No. Whatever I may have said about either you or Third, I would never betray the Safety Patrol." He refrained from adding that Fillmore already knew he wouldn't betray them; it had to be said-it cleared the air.

"We're hoping that Samael's ego won't let him back down from a challenge. Or that in order to stop his followers from abandoning him, he'll have to take the challenge just to keep face."

"And if he doesn't show?" Anza asked.

"Then we have a problem." Fillmore admitted. Anza nodded, and then paused as he realised something.

"Why isn't Ingrid here with you?" A shadow passed over Fillmore's face and turned away, not saying anything. Anza watched his profile and noticed the tight lines around his eyes and the corner of his mouth.

"Would you want Tehama here?" Fillmore asked. Anza frowned, confused as to why Fillmore was bringing Karen into things, when several things started to click into place.

"You and Ingrid?" he choked out finally, eyebrows climbing his forehead when Cornelius nodded in reply.

"But the rules—the regulations—you can't—it's not allowed."

"I know."

Anza shook his head baffled. "How long?"

"Since the Johnson case."

Anza rapidly did the maths, and squawked. Recovering his composure, he asked, "Why are you telling me this?" Fillmore didn't say anything, just stared at the ground, shoulders hunched.

"Oh." Anza shifted around for the right thing to say. "So, the two of you are-" he trailed off.

"Maybe," Fillmore shrugged, "who knows?". Seeming to recover himself, the young detective shook his shoulders and straightened, hitching the bag containing the cans of spray paint onto his shoulder.

"Come on," he said, "we've got to work quickly."

* * *

Sarah Marrows , hummed softly to herself as she headed towards the computer lab on the far side of the school grounds. A security guard passed her, on his rounds, frowning when he saw she was alone, but nodding when he saw th red histle hanging around her neck. With a look that stated clearly he would remain nearby, he let her continue on her way without a reprimand.

Spirits slightly dampened, Sarah readjusted the files she held under her arm and she pulled open the doors to the lab. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw a flicker of white, but when she turned all she saw was a freestanding displayt unit, and one of the ermergany access shafts that ran from the schools main power lines to the lab.

Sitting at a desk, Sarah waited as the computer whirred to life. The patter of footsteps reached her ears and she turned, concerned.

"Hello?"

Gingerly, she lifted the whilst in her fingers, ready to blow a warning if she thought she was about to be threatened. Hearing a chair scrape behind her, Sarah whirled around only to shriek in alarm and surprise, whilst falling from nu,b fingers a she stared.

Sight and mind warred with reason, her instincts telling her that what she saw was real, whilst all she had learned of the world so far told her that this was impossible. The face before her was entirely devoid of colour, drained of pigment like a Kabuki mask, whilst two blood red eyes stared from above gaunt cheeks.

Translucent lips pealed back in a snarl, baring teeth smeared with blood from two split lips.

"Scared?" The figure growled, startling toward Sarah as she stumbled back, still in a state of shock. She tried to tear her eyes away; to blink, to do something to break the hold the boy seemed to have on her. Instead, she found her eyes drifting to his too pale hands, where the veins stood out clearly against the skin. The boy, noticing her gaze, lunged forward and pushed her roughly to the floor. Laughing cruelly, when Sarah yelped in pain.

"Horrid isn't it?" He demanded harshly, towering over her, "To look upon a real-life _freak_." He spat the final word, spittle and blood spraying from his mouth to mottle on Sarah's skin.

"Who are you?" Sarah whispered, cringing away from the madness in the boy's eyes.

"I am Samael." he snarled at her.

The name sent a shock of fear racing through Sarah's system. Remembering herself, she fumbled for her whistle. Seeing the gesture, the boy snarled a final time and bolted.

* * *

**A/N: As always reviews and criticisms are appreciated. **


	9. Ragnarok

**Fillmore!**

**Today's Episode: Of Myths and Legends**

**Act 9: Ragnarok**

_The Playwright Eugene Ionesco said, "Ideology separates us. Dreams and anguish bring us together." _

* * *

Ingrid shrouded herself in the shadows, as she scrutinised the opposite wall. Fillmore and Anza had sprayed their challenge in letters three feet high. She just hoped it would work. The plan had so many flaws, could go so disastrously wrong. In the beginning, everything had hinged on no one knowing that Isis and Kapua were Fillmore and Third. With their identities now revealed, things rested on luck as much as they rested on good planning.

Sighing, Ingrid ran one had tiredly through her hair. She's spent a fitful night trying to get to sleep, only to fall into an uneasy doze shortly before dawn. In the distance she could hear the chatter of voices as the school began to fill with students preparing for another day.

She felt drawn to the bustle of the school and to the Safety Patrol office but something held her back. Glancing once again at the painted wall, she wondered how the wheel could turn so quickly. Is this how revolutionaries felt when in a sudden whirlwind of change they went from being the underdog to being on top? And what of those who were displaced—who no longer had a position in the new order.

Ingrid was tired. Tired of the fighting and the lies. She just wanted everything to be over. She wanted to curl up under the stars and watch the universe roll by.

Stifling a sigh, Ingrid slumped momentarily before she headed towards the Safety Patrol HQ. She tried not to think of what would happen if she met Fillmore. She knew they would both have to pretend as though nothing had changed, but Vallejo at least was aware that the balance had shifted in their relationship. His silence when she had requested that Anza be permitted to accompany Fillmore on his challenge against Samael was enough to tell her he knew something was wrong. Her words had been followed by an uncomfortable silence before he had given the green light to the operation. She knew he had gone straight to Frank Bishop to ask his opinion on the matter. The only comfort was that neither she nor Fillmore could be discharged on a suspected past relationship—not without solid evidence.

Past. The mere thought of the word was felt like a sucker punch to the gut.

"_Always."_ Fillmore's voice whispered in her ear. Spinning, Ingrid leapt to embrace him, only to realise he was not truly there. The word had simply been conjured from memory. Brushing away a silent tear, Ingrid made her way swiftly towards Head Quarters.

* * *

Safety Patrol HQ was in uproar. Karen was kneeling before a pale and shaking Sarah Marrows, whilst the other officers—junior and senior alike—rushed back and forth, succeeding only in breeding more chaos. Anza and Fillmore were stood to one side conversing quietly with Vallejo. Fillmore was decked out as Kapua and even Anza's appearance had been transformed into that of a Trickster Lieutenant.

Fillmore's eyes found hers as she entered the room. The conversation between the three boys stopped; Anza shifted his gaze uncomfortably whilst Vallejo simply stared at his most trusted officer. Ingrid diliked the emotion on the Junior Commissioner's face.

Breaking the status quo by shifting her gaze, Ingrid crossed swiftly to where O'Farrell stood sorting through photographs.

* * *

Fillmore followed Ingrid's movement from the corner of his eye as he listened to Vallejo's debriefing. He could feel Anza's increasing tension beside him, but could not bring himself to care if he was being obvious. He watched as she bent over O'Farrell's desk, nodding at whatever it was the young photographer was telling her. The red head gently shifted Ingrid out his way to reach another stack of photographs, and Fillmore felt jelousy surge in his chest as Danny momentarily placed his hands on Ingrid's hips.

"You still with us Fillmore?" Vallejo's voice cut across his thoughts. Exacberation and chastisement were clear in the Junior Commissioner's tone and FIllmroe snapped his head back to stare at the older boy.

He nodded, face showing nothing as Vallejo's expression hardened. His eyes met Anza's and the other boy's gaze told him clearly that he was close to crossing a line. Anza's eyes flickered quickly to the right and Fillmore saw the less obvious message: stop it now, or you'll drag her down with you.

Visibly collecting himself, Fillmore quickly recited the essential aspects of the briefing, satisfying Vallejo that he had at least been paying partial attention. The briefing ended, and with a wave of his hand, Vallejo dismissed the two senior officers.

Fillmore instantly made to cross the room to Ingrid, but Anza tripped knowing them both into the wall. Cornelius scowled, but paused when he saw Joseph's face. "Later." The bodyguard hissed at him, covering his true intentions by pretending to right himself. "Whatever it is you have to say to her, say it later. Frank Bishop's in Vallejo's office. You don't want him seeing anything he shouldn't." When Fillmore looked set to argue, Anza cut him off. "At the moment it just looks like you've had a disagreement—possibly about how to handle Los Duendos, who knows? But if you talk to her now, it will become damn obvious to everyone in this room that you're involved." His voice, already a whisper, dropped even lower. Fillmore glowered, but he couldn't deny the wisdom being spoken. Shaking the other boy off, Fillmore spared one last look at Ingrid before marching out of the office, Anza hot on his heels.

* * *

Frank Bishop waited until he heard the slam of the main door before turning to look at Vallejo.

"Well?" The junior commissioner asked, eyes tired.

"An awful long time to correct a stumble don't you think?" The profiler replied. At Vallejo's frown, he sighed and continued, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "This case has gotten to you team Vallejo. Tensions are running high. You're going to have to trust Anza and Fillmore can do this with minimal arguments."

"You think that's what they were doing just now?"

"It seems likely. After all, it wasn't Fillmore that requested Anza's assignment."

"No." Vallejo conceded. "That was Third's idea. And even I could tell she didn't have Fillmore's support or the request."

"Does Ingrid act without her partner's support often?" Frank asked, earning him a withering look from Vallejo.

"You know she doesn't. You've been watching them since near the beginning of this assignment. You've seen how well they work together. Something drove them apart."

"In that last few days. Something drove them apart in the last few days." Taking a deep breath, Frank settled into a chair and placed his elbows in his knees, slipping into lecture mode. "Fillmore and Third have a symbiotic relationship. They're emotionally and psychologically dependent on each other; a dependence born of a deep friendship. It is impossible for anyone to maintain such a level of friendship and still work as an effective crime fighting unit." Holding up a hand he staved off Vallejo's protests. "Either the strain of remaining entirely professional breaks the team apart, or another outlet for these emotions are found."

Vallejo held up a hand, prompting Frank to fall silent. "I'm not sure I want to hear what you're going to say." He told his friend. "At the moment all I have are suspicions and my own aren't worth anything—the observations of a profiler however—" He trailed off, leaving the rest of the sentence unsaid.

Frank considered them for a moment, before forging ahead. "I appreciate that, so I'm labelling this as 'off the record'. If I hadn't been watching Fillmore and Third throughout this case, I would say that this recent divide has been caused because they both chose professionalism over their emotions. But, Vallejo, it's obvious to anyone who's looked that the relationship between Isis and Kapua was too natural to have been created. It already existed."

Vallejo nodded sadly, but didn't say anything. "Now if I had to guess, judging by their actions over the past few days, I would say that Fillmore has lost faith in Third. Something's happened to shake his trust in her. But I'm telling you plainly, that had they not been in a relationship—if they were simply partners—this distrust would not be felt so acutely and you would be sending Isis and Kapua to face Los Duendos not Kapua and an unnamed Lieutenant.

"When this is all over, you will have a choice. Either, you allow Fillmore and Third to continue as they were but with the knowledge that their objectivity, in respect to each other, has been compromised. Or, you break them up yourself and lose the best detective team you have."

"So my choices are to risk the integrity of future investigations or to risk not solving them. Brilliant." Vallejo muttered bitterly. He caught Frank's gaze and something he saw there made him pause. "Would you have anything else to say, if you weren't speaking as a Profiler acting based off past experience?" He asked shrewdly.

Frank's lips curled in a small, sardonic smile. "Fillmore and Third are unique. I think, that in them you might find a pair who ultimately would retain their objectivity when it mattered the most. Fillmore might yell and Ingrid might disobey an order or two but, I firmly believe, that when push came to shove they would choose the 'greater good' over each other—but that it would destroy them to do so. The one who had made the call would start questioning if they were committed enough to the other. The question and the worry would morph into guilt and their relationship would subsequently end. They would have remained objective, but the people left would not be the ones you trained."

"So what do I do?" Vallejo asked despairingly.

Frank shook his head, looking tired. "I don't know." He told the other boy. "Seriously Vallejo, I don't know."

* * *

In the darkness of his underground office, Samael seethed quietly. They would _dare_ to place demands on him. These … _mindless peons_, actually had the nerve to instruct him. There were no words to describe how this angered him. He knew his anger showed, but he was beyond caring. Let Cassius think his anger was born from an insulted ego, that was fine. So long as none of them saw that his anger was born of fear—fear that events were moving too fast for him to cope with. He had not even begun to impress upon the Student Boy how much of a monster he could be—he had only reached one student—and already Kapua—Cornelius Fillmore of the Safety Patrol—was calling him out, forcing him to reveal himself. And now his Lieutenants had come to demand that he not back down. Even if he told them it was a trap from the Safety Patrol, he knew Cassius at the very least would demand he answer the challenge anyway. The boy was still rankled from his earlier treatment, and Samael knew he was simply looking for the chance to displace him.

The thought made him pause for a moment. Perhaps if he let Cassius take the challenge—let the Safety Patrol believe _he _was Samael—but no. Cassius knew the truth and he would not hesitate to expose him. And then he would be left at his lieutenant's mercy – to be depicted as Cassius painted him. No, he would have to answer this challenge himself.

"Fine." He hissed at the gathering of boys. "I will meet Kapua. When and where."

Cassius smirked triumphantly, and dug a piece of paper out of his pocket before handing it to Samael who was still hidden in shadows.

"_Now is the time to end the lies,_

_When the children flee and echoes die,_

_Go to a place as dark a cell,_

_Where nightmares began and a major fell."_

"Poetic, isn't it?" Cassius asked, once he sensed Samael had finished reading. "All those words to say 'Meet me in the basement after school'."

Samael smiled, knowing that however simply the riddle appeared, Cassius didn't decipher it on his own. "Who helped you?" He demanded.

"O'Conner." Cassius shrugged. "Of course she didn't know it was me she was helping, she though she was helping a junior cadet with a puzzle. She still hasn't realised the M.S.C.C hasn't been fully purged." Samael ignored the comment.

"Leave us." He instructed. The other luitenants, recognising the tone, promptly fled, leaving Cassius and Samael alone.

"Will you be there to watch?" Samael asked caustically, wincing as Cassius laughed cruelly.

"Of course I will." The other boy told him. "You won't see me, but I'll be there. I'm looking forward to you're being arrested by the Safety Patrol." He seemed to sense Samael's surprise because he laughed again. "I overheard your informant telling you of Anza's outburst in the Safety Patrol. I know who Isis and Kapua really are. I know this challenge is a trap. Just as I know you wont tell them who the members of Los Duendos are. Because who would fear you then?"

Samael cringed and hunched in upon himself, to avoid to vicious gleam in Cassius' eye. At the other boy's smirk, he straightened defiantly and brushed past the boy he had viewed as a Second in Command. Muttering curses under his breath, Samael stalked out of the room, wondering how many student he could subject to the face of a monster before it was all stripped away.

* * *

Ingrid spun the apple on the palm of her hand, watching as the sunlight reflected off of it's waxy skin. Student's on their way home gave the Patroller a wide birth. Skirting around the bench on which she was sitting and avoiding catching her eye.

A rustle of grass drew her attention to the left, where Karen was walking calmly towards her. The resident criminalist sat down beside her friend and watched silently as the other girl continued to play with the fruit. Eventually, Tehama leaned out and placed her hand over Ingrid's, stilling her movements. The pair froze for a moment of time, before Ingrid raised her head to stare at her friend. The emotion on Karen's face weighed heavy on her heart.

"When did you figure it out?" she asked quietly, dropping her gaze.

"It wasn't difficult." Tehama replied. "The two of you were so comfortable with each other. At first I thought I was displacing my own feelings onto you but after—well it was clear I hadn't been imagining it."

Ingrid frowned, mind processing her friend's words. Her lips moved, mulling over a single phrase: 'displacing'. Her photographic memory threw images at her, as she sought the meaning behind Karen's words. Gradually, scenes began to fall into sequence, a myriad or seemingly meaningless looks and gestures coalescing into solid evidence.

"Oh." Ingrid murmured, catching Karen's gaze again. "I'm happy for you." The young tech smiled brightly for a moment, her joy clearly evident on her face, before it fell.

"I don't condone what he said about you Ingrid. I-"

"It's fine. Really." Ingrid assured her companion. "Forget about it. And I'm sorry I didn't confide in you about Fillmore."

Karen smiled her thanks, letting silence descend for a handful of moments before she broached the topic she had initially set out to discuss.

"I don't pretend to know why you're fighting." she said slowly, keeping her voice low. "And I'm not going to ask you to speak about something private but whatever it is Ingrid, are you really sure it's worth letting him do this alone?"

She refused to shy away from the brief fury in Ingrid's eyes and instead waited until the fire died.

"He has Anza with him." The girl-genius said tersely, clearly seeking an end to the conversion. Karen refused to let it slide. She snorted and shifted so that she was fully facing her friend.

"It's not the same and you know it. Whatever reason he gave you—whatever he said—don't let it ruin your partnership. You should be there."

"He doesn't trust me not to lose it." Ingrid ground out bitterly, fingers tightening around the apple she still clutched in one hand. "I've been having nightmares and when I told Fillmore—he was angry that I'd told him I wasn't affected by anything. That I'd lied. He says he can't trust me."

"So prove him wrong," The young CSI urged. "Go there and prove that you can handle it. Don't lose him over one fight."

"One fight?" Ingrid cried, before remembering to lower her voice. ". He didn't want me at the challenge and he doesn't trust me. This is a problem Karen, one we might not be able to fix." The raven-haired Patroller's stoicism was gone and in its place was palpable grief and anger.

"Maybe." Karen conceded. "But Ingrid, have you ever stopped to consider that part his of the reason he didn't want you there is because he thinks he won't be able to protect you?"

"_Protect me_?"

"How guilty do you think he feels that Johnson used you to get to him. That you got hurt because of him? He's worried and he's acting on his instinct to keep you safe because he cares for you. Regardless of what he's said, Fillmore cares about you. Even O'Farrell's figured that one out." Ingrid snorted humourlessly. "Yeah he's angry you lied, but that'll pass. Right now, however, the two of you need to be together. Isis and Kapua need to be the ones to take down Los Duendos. So go be Isis. The rest you can sort out later."

"He chose the basement, didn't he?" Ingrid asked, already sliding of the bench and getting to her feet. A Karen's nod she sighed. "You'll all be waiting?"

"We'll be there to help with the arrest." Karen said calmly. She caught apple Ingrid threw to her and watched the other girl hurry away, sending up a silent prayer to any listening deity that Ingrid and Fillmore would be okay.

* * *

Samael prowled the basement nervously. The place was a rat warren and he hated it. He'd once relished the darkness, but now it had turned on him, hiding his enemies from him rather than the reverse.

He turned a corner, and knew he had arrived at the right place. A boy decked out in Trickster colours had braced himself against the wall, arms folded solidly across his chest in typical bodyguard pose. He was guarding a door. Looking at him, Samael knew that as soon as he entered that room, a call would go out to all Safety Patrollers and they would swarm the place in minutes.

Resigned, Samael stepped into the pool of light ommited from the room, his heart weighing heavy when he saw the Leuitenant's eyes widen at the sight of him. With a snarl that made the other boy try to back up a step—despite being lent against a wall—he stalked into the room.

Kapua stood there, pose casual, hands shoved deep into his pockets. His eyes too went wide at the sight of Samael and the three words the Crime Lord had come to detest slipped past the thief's lips.

"What are you?"

* * *

The words had left his mouth, before Fillmore had a chance to stop them. The second they were out in the open he knew he shouldn't have said them, judging by the look of resentment and fury blossoming on Samael's face. But he couldn't take the words back—despite the fact that he hadn't meant them.

It was true, that Samael's appearance was shocking, that Fillmore had never seen anyone who looked as Samael did, but the words were cruel, and unnecessary.

The boy called Samael laughed hard and bitterly. "My parent's call me _gweilo_." He spat viciously, years of anger and resentment beginning to boil in his chest.

Fillmore frowned and shook his head. "I don't know what that means." He confessed.

"It means White Devil."

Fillmore started at the sound of the voice, as did Samael. The pair turned to look at the figure in the doorway. Ingrid stood there, dressed as Isis, hazel eyes glinting from beneath a curtain of blond hair.

Walking further into the room, she regarded Samael with a mixture of understanding and sympathy. "You're parents really call you that?" she asked gently. The tone was not one Samael was used to hearing: compassion, with no trace of disgust or loathing.

He nodded slowly, watching warily as Isis approached him. "Why?" she asked when she was near enough to stare into his face. Samael was amazed at the lack of fear she showed. So many he had met were horrified with his appearance—but not this girl.

"I'm unnatural." He whispered, voice filled with hatred and self-loathing.

"No, you're not." Kapua said firmly, moving forward. "You're different."

"Albino." Isis added, taking a step back to meet her partner halfway. "A medial condition, rare, but it doesn't make you a _gweilo_."

Samael shook his head, and backed away from the pair. It was too much. All his life he had been hated and feared. His parents hated him because he was different—because they were ignorant and superstitious and because he wasn't what they'd wanted to give birth to. Children had screamed at the sight of him, unable to process the sight of a fellow human with blood-red eyes. No-one had ever been kind to him and so he had sought sanctuaries. Places were he could hide from prying eyes—where no one would see his face. And now here these two were, the two who had come to arrest him and far from treating him with the brisk justic a criminal deserved they were being understanding. Emotions warred in his chest and eventually anger one.

"_No_." He screamed. "No. No. _No. _I'm a criminal—you should _hate _me. I tried to terrorise this school—I made people afraid to even walk in the halls. I'm a monster. I want to be remembered as a monster _and you're trying to sympathise with me?_" He was shrieking now, bloody spittle flying from his lips to spatter on the ground. Isis and Kapua watched him with calm eyes and then Kapua spoke.

"You are a criminal, and you will be placed under arrest, but you are not a monster. So I want to know the real reason you tried to turn this school into your own personal nightmare."

"Because then no one would laugh at me." Samael spat. "You don't laugh at the people you're afraid of. I would have been safe if no one could laugh at me."

"But why now?" Isis asked, frowning, "you've had years."

"_Because you took the M.S.C.C. away from me_." Samael screamed. "You took away the only place I was safe. So I had to do it, don't you see. I had to make a new place to be safe." His voice trailed off into a whisper as members of the Safety Patrol poured into the room, Vallejo in the lead.

"We need the names of the key members of Los Duendos." The Junior Commissioner stated, his eyes fixed firmly on Samael.

"I won't give them to you." The boy stated. "I have no reason to." He glanced back towards Isis and Kapua, and froze when he caught Isis' gaze. She walked towards him, not stopping until she was close enough to feel him trembling. Still holding his gaze, Isis stood on tip-toe and placed a chaste kiss of Samael's lips.

"You are not a freak." She told him softly, before stepping away so that members of the Safety Patrol could place him in custody.

* * *

Fillmore stood in the now empty room of the X Middle School basement, staring at his partner. Ingrid had slipped the wig from her head so that her own raven tresses hung loose around her face. With one hand she plucked the lenses from her eyes and let them fall to the floor. She was Ingrid now, not Isis.

She watched, patiently as Fillmore too, divested himself of his costume and left it in a crumpled heap on the concrete. They watched each other silently for a moment, before Fillmore crossed the room in a few quick strides and wrapped his arms around Third. Waiting only the briefest of moments to see if she would say no, the young detective pressed his lips against hers. That one kiss conveyed a torrent of emotions and words unsaid, and carried a promise and hope for tomorrow. It would take some work – but they were going to be fine.

* * *

**A/N: I apologies for any typos that may have occured. It's past 1 am and I am very tired. As always please review and let me know what you think**


	10. Epilogue: Illysium

**Fillmore!**

**Today's Episode: Of Myths and Legends**

**Act 10: Illysium**

"_Birds sing after a storm, __why shouldn't people feel as free to delight in whatever sunlight remains to them?_

_ Rose Kennedy_

* * *

Ingrid laughed as she watched Karen chase a terrified Daniel O'Farrell across the park. Beside her, a grinning Joseph Anza shouted encouragement to his girlfriend whilst behind her, Fillmore yelled instructions on how to dodge to Danny.

She relaxed into Fillmore's embrace, enjoying the freedom of being able to acknowledge, openly, their relationship. A few feet away, Vallejo shook his head in amusement as O'Farrell in a bid to escape Karen's wrath, jumped sideways into the pond. She caught the Junior Commissioner's eye and once again smiled her thanks. He had let her and Fillmore retain their partnership - his argument being that in a few months he graduated and their partnership would draw to a close anyway as Fillmore had been pegged as the next Junior Commissioner. A prospect Fillmore was less than thrilled with as it meant more paperwork.

Anza and Tehama had both been given new partners at their request, Karen citing that she would be more comfortable if she no longer answered to Anza directly. She had questioned the wisdom of her decision upon learning that her new partner was O'Farrell. Anza had taken on one of the junior patrollers as a protégé and was enjoying passing on the tricks of the trade.

Fillmore's eyes tightened around her and she looked up into his grinning face. She smiled, in return, instinctively and raised one eyebrow at him. He took the hint and began to lower his face when Vallejo's voice interrupted them.

"As glad as I am that the two of you worked things out," he commented dryly, "could you please express your happiness somewhere else. I'm not supposed to be condoning this relationship you know."

Laughing, Fillmore straightened and settled for resting his chin on Ingrid's shoulder. He could indulge Vallejo's interruption. After all, he and Ingrid? They were for 'always'.

* * *

**A/N: So there you have it , the final instalment to Of Myths and Legends. I hope you have enjoyed the story I know the chapter before this epilogue may have seemed a little rushed but I tried, that's all I can say. As always reviews make my heart swell so please let me know what you think. Thank you for reading. x**


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